I started typing a short reply, asking whether she had meant to send the message to someone else.

Before I could finish, a third message popped up with a link to a craft supply store across town.

Buy thirty six-ounce jars on your way home from the hospital, my mother wrote.

Don’t ruin this day for Melissa like you ruined Friday.

I rested the edge of the phone against my collarbone and closed my eyes for a second.

There had to be a simple misunderstanding about my discharge.