My Sister Tried To Pull The Plug On My Comatose Daughter To Steal Her Inheritance. Then My 7-year-old Son Pulled Out His Phone. Am I Wrong For Pressing Charges?
“Melody was in surgery that the doctors were doing everything they could.”
Those were the longest nine hours of my life. I paced that waiting room until I memorized every stain on the carpet, every crack in the pale green walls, and every flicker of the fluorescent lights.
Our life before the accident wasn’t perfect, but it was ours. After Dennis left two years ago, claiming he needed to find himself, I rebuilt our little family from scratch.
The divorce had been brutal. Dennis fought me on everything from custody to who got the coffee maker.
He ended up moving to Seattle, supposedly for a fresh start with some woman named Tanya he’d met online. The kids got birthday cards with checks that sometimes bounced and phone calls that grew less frequent each month.
I worked two jobs to keep us afloat. I worked days at a dental office doing billing and insurance claims and evenings at a grocery store stocking shelves after the kids went to bed.
My neighbor Mrs. Chen would sit with them for $10 an hour, which was all I could afford. Some nights I’d come home at midnight to find Bryce reading to Melody from their favorite book series about a time-traveling scientist.
He’d taken over that ritual when the evening shifts started. The apartment was small but clean.
There were two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a kitchen that connected to a living room just big enough for our secondhand couch and the TV I’d bought at a yard sale. Melody and Bryce shared a room without complaint.
We’d painted it ourselves last summer, soft blue with clouds on the ceiling that glowed in the dark. Melody had drawn dolphins jumping between the clouds and I didn’t have the heart to tell her dolphins don’t fly.
My family had opinions about our living situation, of course. Lisa never missed an opportunity to point out what we lacked.
She’d say, usually while showing me photos of her latest house listing,
“Those children deserve better Rachel. This three-bedroom in Maple Grove would be perfect for you if only you’d finished college instead of getting pregnant.”
The pregnancy comment always stung. I’d been 24 in my junior year studying accounting when I found out I was having Melody.
Dennis and I got married at city hall with just our parents present. I dropped out to work full-time while he finished his degree in engineering.
The plan was I’d go back to school once he got established. That plan, like so many others, never materialized.
Todd was different from Lisa. He’d slip me cash when he could, always claiming he owed me from some imaginary bet.
He’d show up on weekends to fix things around the apartment, bringing his tools and his quiet support.
He’d say while replacing a leaky faucet or patching a hole in the wall,
“You’re doing great sis. These kids are lucky to have you.”
My mother’s relationship with me had grown complicated since she moved in with Lisa. She used to be my biggest defender, but lately, she’d started echoing Lisa’s criticisms.
She’d suggested just last month,
“Maybe you should consider letting Melody spend summers with Lisa. She could take tennis lessons go to that fancy camp at the lake.”
I’d replied,
“Mom, Melody doesn’t want tennis lessons. She wants to be with her family.”
Mom had said,
“Family doesn’t pay bills Rachel.”
Something in her tone felt rehearsed, like she was repeating words someone else had planted.
The hospital became our new world after the accident. The pediatric ICU at Children’s Hospital was both terrifying and oddly comforting.
The nurses knew their stuff. They talked to Melody like she could hear them, explaining what they were doing and telling her about the weather outside.
Dr. Harrison had a calm confidence that kept me from falling apart completely. He was maybe 50 with graying hair and pictures of his own kids on his ID badge.
He explained on day two,
“We’re monitoring her intracranial pressure. The swelling is our biggest concern right now. Her body needs time to heal and the induced coma gives her that chance. Children are remarkably resilient Mrs. Carter, don’t lose hope.”
Hope. I clung to that word like a life raft.
Hope was all I had while machines breathed for my daughter and IV lines fed her nutrients. She should have been getting nutrients from the lunch I’d packed with such care.
It was a peanut butter sandwich with the crusts cut off, apple slices that wouldn’t brown because I’d sprinkled them with lemon juice, and the note I always tucked inside.
The note said,
“Mom loves you to the moon and back.”
On day three, exhaustion finally won. I’d been awake for nearly 72 hours straight, surviving on hospital coffee and whatever vending machine food Todd brought me.
My eyes burned, my head throbbed, and my body felt like it was made of lead. I was holding Melody’s hand, whispering stories about the summer we’d go to the beach when she got better, when sleep just took me.
One moment I was telling her about building sandcastles, the next I was gone, my head resting on the edge of her bed. I woke to voices, but something made me keep my eyes closed.
Maybe it was the tone, that hushed conspiracy sound people use when they’re saying things they shouldn’t. Lisa’s voice cut through the quiet beeping of machines.
Lisa said, and I could hear the disdain dripping from every word,
“Look at her. Rachel’s always been bad luck. First Dennis left her, then she lost her job at the bank, now this. Maybe it’s better if Melody doesn’t survive her mother is a curse.”
My blood turned to ice. My own sister, standing over my unconscious daughter, was saying these words.
I wanted to scream, to jump up and throw her out, but shock kept me frozen. Through my barely open eyes, I could see Aunt Paula nodding along.
Paula responded, her teacher voice making it sound like she was discussing a lesson plan instead of my child’s life,
“You might be right. That poor child would struggle growing up with Rachel barely making ends meet and the medical bills alone will bankrupt her. What kind of life is that?”
Uncle Jerome added his wisdom,
“If the worst happens at least the girl won’t suffer. Rachel can barely take care of herself let alone two kids. She’s working herself to death for what? A cramped apartment and generic cereal.”
