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 night shift arrived again. Different nurses this time, but the same routine of blood sugar checks and vital signs. I slept better, exhaustion finally overwhelming anxiety. The nightmares were still there but less vivid, my mind beginning to process the trauma into manageable pieces.

The second morning brought discharge papers. Dr. Rollins did a final examination, pronouncing me stable enough for home care. She adjusted my insulin ratios again, accounting for the stress hormones still flooding my system. She scheduled follow-up appointments for the next week, wanting to monitor my recovery closely.

The discharge nurse went through a lengthy checklist: medications verified, follow-up appointments confirmed, emergency contact numbers updated. She had me demonstrate drawing up insulin and checking my blood sugar. Standard protocol, but suddenly weighted with new meaning. Mom watched every movement as if memorizing the procedures herself.

Dad had brought fresh clothes from home. Getting dressed felt strange after 2 days in a hospital gown. My jeans hung loose, the dehydration having stripped away water weight. The simple act of tying my shoes left me breathless, my body still recovering from its ordeal.

The wheelchair ride to the exit was mandatory hospital policy, regardless of my protests. Dad pulled the car around while Mom gathered the accumulated belongings: flowers from relatives, get well cards from neighbors who’d heard the news, the untouched pamphlets about family counseling.

The drive home was silent except for the radio playing softly. I sat in the back seat watching familiar streets pass by. Everything looked the same but felt different, like returning to a foreign country. Mom kept turning to check on me, her seat belt straining with each movement.

Our house looked exactly as we’d left it 3 days ago. The Black Friday sale paper still sat on the kitchen table. Jade’s coffee mug stood in the sink, unwashed. The normalcy felt obscene after everything that had happened. Dad immediately began gathering Jade’s belongings from common areas, stuffing them into boxes.

I stood in the kitchen doorway, unable to enter. The broken glass had been cleaned up, the insulin residue mopped away, but I could still see it all: the counter where I’d gripped for support, the sink where I’d vomited, the spot where I’d collapsed. Mom gently guided me to the living room instead.

The lock box arrived by delivery that afternoon. Dad installed it in my bedroom closet, immediately adding a combination lock for extra security. We loaded my insulin supply inside, counting each vial twice. He gave me the combination, made me practice opening it several times. Mom wrote it down and hid the paper in her jewelry box.

My bedroom felt like a sanctuary and a prison simultaneously. Everything was exactly as I’d left it, but Jade’s presence lingered. I found one of my old glucose meters in my desk drawer, one she must have missed during her search. The discovery made me shake uncontrollably until Mom held me steady.

Dinner was takeout; nobody felt up to cooking. We ate in the living room, abandoning the dining table where so many family dramas had unfolded. The food tasted like cardboard, but I forced it down, knowing my blood sugar needed the stability. Dad obsessively checked the nutrition information, calculating carbs with new intensity.

The doorbell rang after dark. We all froze, the sound triggering fresh anxiety. It was just another neighbor dropping off a casserole and expressing concern. Mom accepted it graciously while Dad and I remained hidden in the living room. The normalcy of suburban kindness felt jarring against our new reality.

Bedtime brought new challenges. I checked my insulin supply three times before attempting sleep. Mom offered to stay in my room, but I declined. I needed to face this alone, to begin rebuilding my sense of security. She compromised by leaving both our doors open, promising to listen for any distress.

Sleep came in fragments. I woke every few hours to check my blood sugar, the routine now tinged with paranoia. Each reading was normal, but I checked twice anyway. The insulin pump hummed softly on my nightstand, its familiar sound both comforting and triggering.

Morning arrived with Mom already in the kitchen preparing breakfast. She’d researched low glycemic recipes overnight, determined to help manage my diabetes better. Dad sat at the table with a notebook, writing down questions for the lawyer he’d contacted. The pretense of normal family breakfast felt forced but necessary.

The pharmacy called to confirm my prescription refills were ready. Mom insisted on picking them up immediately, despite having just received the hospital supply. She returned with bags of supplies, enough insulin to last months. We added it all to the lock box, the growing stockpile a tangible comfort.

Dr. Rollins’s office called to confirm my follow-up appointment. The receptionist mentioned they’d added extra time to the slot, understanding this visit would involve more than routine diabetes management. Mom marked it on three different calendars, her anxiety manifesting in over-preparation.

I spent the afternoon testing my blood sugar obsessively. Every slight symptom triggered panic: Was I thirsty because my sugar was high or just dehydrated? Did my hands shake from low blood sugar or residual trauma? Mom finally hid my extra test strips, limiting me to the prescribed checking schedule.

The detective called with updates. Jade had made bail but was staying with a friend across town. The restraining order was officially in place. He mentioned the prosecutor was taking the case seriously given the life-threatening nature of her actions. Court dates would be scheduled soon.

Dinner was another quiet affair. We developed a new routine, already eating in the living room to avoid the kitchen’s memories. Dad had started researching home security systems, showing us options on his tablet: motion sensors, cameras, alarm systems—anything to restore our sense of safety.