By the time paramedics arrived, black tunnels had swallowed parts of my vision. I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Gable cradling Leo, her frail arms steady against his wriggling body.

“BP’s dropping fast!” one EMT shouted. “Seventy over forty. Possible internal hemorrhage. Step on it!”

In the ambulance, the world blurred. Sirens screamed. Machines rattled. One thought anchored itself in my panicked mind: I had to call my mother. Mrs. Gable could only stay an hour or two—the limits of her endurance, her husband’s frailty a barrier.

I dialed, shaking, heart hammering.

“Hello?” My mother’s voice, sharp and irritated, cut through the static. Background noise roared—a cacophony of stadium cheers and booming bass.

“Mom,” I gasped into the oxygen mask, voice ragged. “I’m… in an ambulance. I’m… bleeding.”

“What?” Her voice barely rose above the crowd. “I can’t hear you, Mia! We’re at the stadium!”

“I need surgery,” I pleaded. “Please… get the kids. Mrs. Gable can’t stay. Mom, please.”

“Mia, are you serious?” She shouted, disbelief sharper than the pain in my abdomen. “We just sat down! Adele’s coming on in twenty minutes! VIP box seats! Chloe spent a fortune! Do you even know what these tickets cost?”

“Mom… I might die,” I whispered, darkness creeping closer. “Please.”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” she hissed. “It’s probably just your period or something you ate. You always ruin things, Mia. Call your ex. Call a nanny. Don’t ruin this night for your sister. She worked hard for this bonus.”

“But Mom—”

“I have to go. Lights are dimming. Don’t call back.”

Click.

The phone slid from my fingers onto the stretcher sheet.

The EMT, young and kind-eyed, looked down at me. “Is someone meeting us at the hospital? A husband? A friend?”

I shook my head. Shame burned hotter than the pain.

Then, my phone lit up: Facebook. Notification. A photo. Posted one minute ago.

My mother, father, and Chloe—champagne flutes in hand, glowing under purple stage lights, grinning.