My Sister Faked Diabetes For Attention. When She Was Exposed, She Destroyed My Life-saving Insulin While I Begged For Help. Am I Wrong For Wanting Her To Rot In Prison?

The counselor called to schedule our first family session. Mom had reached out to several before finding one who specialized in medical trauma and family dysfunction. The first appointment was set for next week, giving us time to process the immediate crisis before diving into deeper issues.

Night fell with its familiar anxieties. I checked the insulin supply twice more, despite knowing nothing had changed. Mom had started a log, documenting every vial’s location and expiration date. Dad installed a baby monitor in my room, insisting it was just temporary, just until things felt normal again.

The second night home was marginally better. I only woke twice to check blood sugars, only verified my insulin supply once. Mom appeared in my doorway during one check, wordlessly confirming she was still maintaining her vigil. We nodded at each other in the darkness, a silent acknowledgment of our new reality.

Morning brought the beginning of routine: breakfast, blood sugar check, insulin dose, recording everything in the log book. Mom watched but didn’t hover as much. Dad left for work reluctantly, calling twice before lunch to check in.

The house felt emptier without his anxious presence. I ventured into the kitchen for the first time since returning home. The familiar space felt foreign, each surface holding invisible memories. Mom found me standing frozen by the sink, unable to move forward or back. She gently led me through making tea, reclaiming the space one small action at a time.

The mail brought medical bills and insurance paperwork. Mom sorted through them methodically, creating files for everything related to the incident. She’d already started the appeals process for the destroyed insulin, determined to have Jade’s actions documented in every possible system.

Mrs. Bufort stopped by with more food and a listening ear. She shared stories of her own family struggles, normalizing our pain without minimizing it. Before leaving, she made us promise to use that spare key if we ever needed anything, day or night. Her fierce protectiveness brought Mom to tears again.

The afternoon was dedicated to reorganizing my diabetes supplies. We created multiple emergency kits strategically placed throughout the house. Each contained glucose tablets, a spare meter, and ketone testing strips. Dad labeled each one with bright red tape, making them impossible to miss.

Dad turning into a security system expert while Mom becomes a meal prep champion shows how trauma makes everyone suddenly pick up new hobbies nobody asked for.

Dr. Rollins’s follow-up appointment confirmed my physical recovery was progressing well. My blood sugar patterns were stabilizing, though still showing stress-related spikes. She adjusted my insulin ratios again and recommended continuous glucose monitoring for added peace of mind. The technology would alert us to dangerous trends before they became critical.

The drive home was when Mom finally broke down completely. She pulled over sobbing about failing to protect me, about enabling Jade’s behavior, about the thousand small signs she’d ignored. I held her hand while she cried, both of us learning that healing would come in waves.

Dad had dinner waiting, having left work early to cook. He’d made my favorite meal from childhood, trying to create new positive memories in our kitchen. We ate together at the dining table for the first time since the incident, reclaiming another piece of our home.

Evening brought exhaustion but also a strange peace. We’d survived another day. My blood sugars had stayed stable. The insulin remained safely locked away. These small victories felt monumental. Mom suggested watching a movie together, something light and distracting.

Bedtime came with less anxiety. I checked my supplies only once, recorded my blood sugar normally. Mom kissed my forehead goodnight, a gesture she hadn’t made since I was young. Dad double-checked the new alarm system before retiring. We were learning to feel safe again.

The night passed peacefully. I woke only once, more from habit than need. My blood sugar was perfect, my insulin pump humming steadily. I lay in the darkness listening to the familiar sounds of home and felt something inside begin to unknot.

Morning dawned with possibility. The trauma would always be there, woven into our family’s fabric, but we were learning to live with it, to build new routines around the scars. Mom made breakfast without hovering. Dad left for work with only one check-in call planned. I sat at the kitchen table, the same spot where everything had started, and took my morning insulin without fear. The simple act felt like reclaiming power. Mom smiled at me across the table, hope beginning to creep back into her eyes. Life would continue, different than before, marked by new vigilance and hard-won wisdom, but continuing nonetheless.