My name is Lauren Morrison. I’m 30 years old, and the night my family finally pushed me past my breaking point started with a phone call at 2:17 a.m.
I know the exact time because I was staring at my alarm clock, silently begging my brain to shut up and let me sleep when my phone lit up on the nightstand. MOM, the screen said, and my stomach dropped. Nobody calls at two in the morning with good news.
For a second, I thought maybe I was dreaming. Then the phone vibrated again.
Not a dream.
I fumbled for it and answered, voice thick with sleep.
“Mom?”
Her voice hit me like a slap—high-pitched, panicked.
“Lauren. Oh God. Lauren, you have to help. It’s Cody.”
I sat up so fast the room spun.
“What happened? Is he okay?”
“He collapsed,” she gasped. “He’s in the hospital. They’re saying—oh God, they’re saying he needs immediate treatment, but we don’t have the money.”
The word collapsed scraped down my spine.
“What hospital?” I swung my legs out of bed, already reaching for my jeans. “Mom, slow down. Where is he?”
“We need fifteen thousand dollars right now.” She rushed on like I hadn’t spoken. “They won’t treat him without it, and he’s suffering. Lauren, he’s in so much pain.”
“Mom, what hospital?”
She didn’t answer.
And just like that, the first quiet alarm bell rang in the back of my head. Not a blaring siren—just that soft ping of something’s not right here.
“They need the money immediately,” she said. “Can you Venmo it or Zelle? We need it now, Lauren. Right now. Your brother could—”
“Let me talk to a doctor,” I cut in.
“There’s no time.”
“Then let me talk to Cody.”
“He’s unconscious.”
I rubbed a hand over my face. My brain was scrambling to catch up.
Cody. Hospital. $15,000. Two in the morning.
“What hospital is he at?” I asked again, slower this time. “Name. Location.”
“St. Mary’s.”
Then, without breathing:
“But Lauren, please just send the money. Every second counts.”
“I’ll call St. Mary’s directly,” I said. “Talk to his doctor. Figure out what’s going on.”
“No, don’t.” Her voice sharpened. “They’re busy. You’ll just slow things down. Please, Lauren.”
The alarm bell got louder, because I’d heard this script before.
Different verses. Same desperate chorus.
“Where’s Becca?” I asked.
Silence.
My older sister’s name hung there between us like a weight.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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