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I work at a pharmacy; long shifts, steady pay. Money was tight, but Olivia and I were getting by. She’s eight, bright, and she never once complained about the changes.
We had a routine. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.
And then everything changed one recent afternoon.
I was halfway through my shift when my phone rang.
It was a number I didn’t recognize, but something in my gut told me to pick it up.
My stomach dropped. “Yes. What happened?”
I don’t remember being given the hospital’s name, grabbing my bag, or clocking out.
***
By the time I got to the hospital, they’d already taken her in, and her nanny was pacing. I sent the nanny home; she was so traumatized she couldn’t call me after the accident happened.
Her face was pale, her leg wrapped, monitors beeping steadily beside her. A doctor stood near the foot of the bed, explaining what had happened.
“She rode over a rock and hit the ground hard before her nanny could do anything. There’s damage that requires surgery. After that, she’ll need extensive therapy to walk normally again.”
Then came the part that almost made me faint.