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?

After he left, the silence returned heavier than before. Dad finally stopped pacing and sat in the other chair. He reached for my hand, squeezing it gently. His calloused fingers trembled slightly. Mom moved to sit on the bed’s edge, careful not to disturb the IV line. They told me about finding Jade’s diary months ago but dismissing it as teenage dramatics. About the warning signs they’d ignored, choosing to believe her performances rather than face the ugly truth about how they’d failed both their daughters in different ways. Their words came out jumbled, interrupted by tears and long pauses.

A social worker visited next. She was older with gray hair pulled back in a practical bun. She asked about my home situation, whether I felt safe returning there. The question seemed absurd after everything, but I understood the protocol. She left pamphlets about family counseling and support groups for families dealing with medical abuse.

The endocrinologist arrived for evening rounds. Dr. Rollins had been my doctor since diagnosis, and her familiar face brought unexpected comfort. She reviewed my chart, adjusting my insulin regimen to account for the trauma my body had endured. She mentioned that stress could affect my blood sugar control for weeks, requiring closer monitoring.

Night fell outside the window. The hospital cafeteria had long since closed, but Dad found vending machines somewhere. He returned with an armload of snacks, desperate to do something helpful. I managed a few crackers, my stomach still unsettled from the day’s ordeal. Mom’s phone rang constantly. Family members had heard something was wrong. She stepped into the hallway to field calls, her voice muffled through the door. I caught fragments about Jade, about charges, about not knowing what would happen next. Each conversation seemed to drain more energy from her.

The night nurse was different, older and more business-like. She checked my blood sugar every 2 hours, pricking my fingers with practiced efficiency. The numbers were stabilizing slowly, my body gradually returning to its normal patterns. She brought extra blankets without being asked, recognizing the bone-deep chill that came after severe DKA.

I dozed fitfully between blood sugar checks. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jade holding those vials over the disposal. The grinding sound echoed in my dreams. I’d wake gasping, convinced my insulin pump was beeping empty again. Mom would squeeze my hand, reminding me where I was.

Learning to Live Again

Morning brought new doctors, new discussions about discharge planning. The psychiatrist was required after what they classified as a traumatic event. She asked careful questions about my mental state, screening for post-traumatic stress. I answered honestly about the nightmares, the anxiety about my insulin supply, the fear that hadn’t quite faded.

Physical therapy came next. The severe dehydration had left me weaker than expected. The therapist helped me walk the hospital corridors, building strength back gradually. My legs shook with each step, muscles protesting after their ordeal. She assured me this was normal, that recovery would take time.

The pharmacy delivered my new insulin supply directly to the room. The pharmacist went through each vial with me, verifying the prescription and expiration dates. Mom watched anxiously as I checked each one, her hand hovering near the bag like she could protect it through proximity. Dad asked about getting a lock box for home storage.

Really makes me wonder what Jade’s telling herself right now in that holding cell while her family picks up the pieces of her mess. The way she just ran when the sirens came says everything about how much planning really went into this whole scheme.

Discharge planning began after lunch. The case manager discussed follow-up appointments, emergency protocols, and safety planning. She mentioned that Jade wouldn’t be allowed near me once released on bail, that a restraining order was already in process. The words felt surreal, like we were discussing a stranger instead of my sister.

Mrs. Bufort returned that afternoon with homemade soup. “She’d been cooking all morning,” she said, needing something to do with her hands. She sat with Mom while I sipped the broth, the two women finding comfort in shared silence. Before leaving, she pressed a spare key into Mom’s hand, insisting we keep it for emergencies.

The insurance coordinator arrived with paperwork. The destroyed insulin would be covered under our policy’s emergency replacement clause. She walked us through the forms, explaining coverage for the hospital stay and follow-up care. Dad asked about counseling coverage, his voice carefully neutral.

My regular insulin pump needed replacing after the trauma. The diabetes educator brought a new one, going through the setup process methodically. My hands shook as I primed the tubing, muscle memory warring with fresh trauma. She was patient, letting me work through each step at my own pace.

Evening brought more visitors. My aunt arrived from two states away, having driven all day after Mom’s call. She hugged me carefully, mindful of the IV, then turned to my parents with less gentleness. I heard heated whispers in the hallway—accusations about enabling Jade, about ignoring warning signs.