Returning home after hospital stay

The car ride home was silent, except for the occasional rustle of the hospital discharge papers in my trembling hands. The familiar streets blurred past the window, but my mind was elsewhere, swirling with a mixture of relief, dread, and a numb kind of exhaustion that seeped deep into my bones. A week in the hospital—a week during which the only visitors I hoped for never came.

When I was finally wheeled up our driveway, the house looked exactly the same as it always had: tall, imposing, and unwelcoming. The kind of place where warmth existed only as a memory, and smiles were as rare as rain in the desert. I expected nothing different, yet the sight of the front door made my stomach twist with unease.

The front door opened before I could even ring the bell.

My parents stood there, both rigid, their faces drawn tight with cold indifference. Their eyes skimmed over me like I was a stranger, or worse—a problem to be ignored. Not once had they come to the hospital, not once had I heard their voices ask about the pain I had endured or the fear I’d swallowed down when I sank beneath the pool water. I wondered if they even remembered I was gone.

Behind them, Ethan lingered awkwardly in the shadow of the doorway. His usual confident, golden-boy smile was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his eyes avoided mine, flickering with a strange mix of guilt, embarrassment, and something that almost looked like regret. For a moment, I thought he might say something—anything—but he didn’t.

I shifted uncomfortably in the wheelchair, the bruises on my ribs and the stiff cast on my arm reminding me of every painful moment since Savannah pushed me into the pool. My fingers clenched tightly around the hospital blanket draped over my lap.

“We’re glad you’re home,” my mother said in a voice flat and carefully neutral, like reading from a script. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t comforting. It was simply words.

My father’s eyes narrowed slightly as he added, “You need to take it easy. This isn’t the time for any nonsense.”

I nodded silently. What else could I say?

Ethan shifted his weight, finally looking at me but only for a brief second before looking away again. “Glad you’re okay,” he muttered, voice low.

That was it. A few cold words that felt like they belonged to someone else’s family.

My heart felt as if it were sinking beneath the weight of their indifference.

They helped me inside, but their touches were careful, measured, as though I might break like thin glass. The house smelled the same as it always had—faintly of polished wood and stale air, heavy with silence. It wrapped around me like a suffocating blanket, pressing in from all sides.

They didn’t ask how I felt. They didn’t offer to help with anything. Instead, my mother busied herself with tidying the living room, stealing sidelong glances but never meeting my eyes. My father sat stiffly in his usual chair, phone in hand, scrolling absentmindedly.

Ethan lingered near the window, his jaw clenched tight.

“I can manage,” I finally said softly, trying to break through the invisible walls.

My mother glanced up, lips pressed thin. “Don’t overdo it,” she said sharply, then returned to straightening cushions.

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat and wheeled myself toward the staircase, every movement sending sharp reminders from my ribs.

Ethan’s footsteps followed slowly behind me. “You should rest,” he said quietly.

I paused at the top of the stairs, waiting for him to say more, to explain the sudden hesitance in his voice, but he only shrugged and left me standing there alone.

I moved to my room, every familiar corner suddenly foreign and cold. My bed looked untouched, the blankets crisply folded. I sat down carefully, testing the softness beneath me, feeling every ache and tender spot.

Alone in my room, I let the tears come—slow and silent at first, then pooling until I had no choice but to sob quietly into my pillow.

I thought about how long it had been since I’d felt safe in this house, if ever.

The bruises on my skin would fade. The fractured bones would mend. But the ache in my heart, the quiet loneliness of being unseen, unheard, and unwanted—those felt like wounds with no end.

I thought of Jaxon then—his strong hands as he cleaned my wounds, the way he looked at me like I mattered, like I was something precious and rare. Even now, the memory sent a rush of warmth through my cold limbs.

But he wasn’t here. And I was left with nothing but silence.

The hours passed slowly. Footsteps in the hallway, muffled voices downstairs, and the distant sounds of life going on without me. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment—the party, the betrayal, the fight, the fall.

I didn’t know how to be a part of this family anymore.

I didn’t know if they wanted me to be.

Sleep came fitfully, but I welcomed it. It was the only escape from the emptiness that surrounded me.