We all settled in the living room, and for the next hour I listened to Ava talk about her upcoming school project. Something about a multimedia presentation that required professional-grade equipment which apparently justified the new phone. My parents hung on her every word—asking questions, offering suggestions, beaming with pride. I waited for a break in the conversation.
“Hey, so about my medication—”
“Oh, Lena, not now.”
My dad waved a hand.
“Your sister is telling us about her project.”
“I know, but the doctor said it was urgent.”
“Sweetie, you’re just overworked.”
My mom patted my knee absently, her attention still on Ava.
“College is stressful. You need to relax more.”
Ava shot me this look. Not quite smug, but close. The look that said, See, I matter more. I’d seen that look my whole life.
I tried again at dinner.
“Did you pick up my prescription?”
“Your sister needs us more right now,” my dad said, passing the salad bowl. “She’s got that big presentation next month.”
Something cold settled in my chest.
“But the doctor said—”
“Doctors always make things sound worse than they are.”
My mom interrupted.
“Remember when Ava had that cold and they said it might be pneumonia? It was just a cold.”
“This is different.”
“Is it, though?”
My dad raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve always been a bit dramatic about your health, honey.”
I put my fork down. My appetite was gone anyway.
That night, I woke up gasping for air. My room was dark except for the streetlight filtering through the curtains. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. My fingers—both hands—were completely numb, like they’d been replaced with blocks of wood. I tried to sit up and the room tilted violently sideways. I grabbed for my nightstand and missed, my numb hands clumsy and useless. I managed to get myself upright through sheer force of will. I sat there on the edge of my bed, breathing hard, trying not to panic. This was worse than the lab, worse than any of the previous episodes. I needed that medication. Tonight.
I stumbled downstairs, one hand on the wall for balance. The kitchen was dark. I flipped on the light and immediately spotted the counter where my mom always put pharmacy pickups. Nothing. Just Ava’s phone box, some accessories she’d ordered, a stack of mail—no pharmacy bag, no medication. I checked the other counter, the table, even opened the fridge in case someone had put it in there by mistake. Nothing. My hands were still numb. My head was starting to pound. And in that moment, standing alone in my parents’ kitchen at 2 in the morning, I felt scared in a way I never felt before. Not scared of what was happening to my body. Scared that my own family didn’t care enough to help me.
I waited until Sunday lunch to bring it up. Family tradition. Everyone had to be there, phones away, attention focused. They couldn’t brush me off or change the subject when we were all sitting around the table together. At least that’s what I told myself. Ava was showing off her new phone’s features, demonstrating the camera’s zoom function on the flower arrangement Mom had placed in the center of the table. My parents were appropriately amazed. I sat quietly, my fingers still tingling with that awful numbness, a dizzy spell threatening at the edges of my awareness. I waited until there was a natural lull in the conversation. Then I asked, keeping my voice calm and casual.
“Did you pick up my prescription? The doctor said it was urgent.”
My dad didn’t even look up from his iced tea. He took a long sip, set the glass down with a soft clink, and said,
“Oh, we used that money to buy your sister’s new phone. She needed it for school.”
