I never imagined that the night I rushed my stepmother to the emergency room would be the last time I’d see her alive. She had collapsed in the kitchen, gripping the counter as her speech slurred and fear filled her eyes. I didn’t hesitate—I grabbed my keys, wrapped her in a coat, and drove through red lights, praying she would hold on. While doctors worked to save her, I called her daughter, Mia, hoping she would come. Instead, her cold reply stayed with me: “Call me when she’s gone.” Then she hung up. Two days later, my stepmother passed away.
