A loud, heavy sigh rasped through the little speaker before she went on.

“Your sister spent three months planning this Sunday afternoon, and you’re acting like a guest who can’t be bothered to bring a simple dessert tray,” my mother said.

“I expect you to call her back immediately and apologize for the way you spoke to her earlier.” The recording ended with a sharp digital beep.

I sat up slowly, the surgical tape pulling tight against my right side, and opened my texts.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard as I typed three quick lines explaining that Rosalie was on high oxygen and couldn’t breathe without a machine.