I went into labor, but my mother coldly said, “The hospital? Dinner comes first!” Then my sister laughed and set our car on fire. “Another useless human? What’s the point?

Barefoot. Straight to the neighbor’s house.

I tried to call after him, but another contraction took my breath away. Everything blurred—the fire, the shouting, my mother complaining about her garden, Jessica pacing like she hadn’t expected consequences to exist.

Mrs. Holloway from next door called 911.

Her husband ran back with Ryan clinging to his side, crying that his mommy was having a baby and that the car was on fire. Later, they told me Ryan even tried to use her phone to call Michael, because that’s what he’d seen adults do.

By the time the ambulance arrived, my mother had changed her tone completely.

“She’s always been emotional,” she told them. “It all happened so fast.”

Even in that moment, strapped to a stretcher, shaking and half-conscious, I found the strength to point at Jessica.

“She did it,” I said. “She burned it. Don’t let them say it was an accident.”

One of the EMTs squeezed my wrist. “I heard you.”

At the hospital, everything went wrong before it went right.

My blood pressure dropped. The baby’s heart rate dipped. They rushed me into emergency care while Ryan was taken to the waiting area, still asking if I was okay.

I remember begging them to save my daughter.

Then darkness.