“She’s being dramatic.” That was the first thing my twenty-year-old sister, Vanessa, said when she looked down at me on the kitchen floor.

I was fifteen years old, lying on the cold, faux-marble linoleum at 214 Larks Lane, clutching my right forearm against my ribs. The pain wasn't a dull ache; it was a white-hot, blinding fire that pulsed with every beat of my heart. My arm looked sickeningly crooked between the wrist and the elbow, bent at an angle human anatomy never intended.

Vanessa’s college friends were arriving in three hours. She was holding a stack of pastel napkins in one hand and checking her reflection in the microwave door with the other.

“She probably twisted it on purpose,” Vanessa told our mother, not even bothering to crouch down. “Connor is driving down from campus tonight, Mom. We’ve been planning this kickoff mixer for three weeks. I don't need another one of her scenes.”

I tried to push myself up with my left hand, but a wave of nausea hit me so hard my forehead tapped the tile. “Mom, please,” I choked out, tears blurring the kitchen cabinets into golden streaks. “It snapped. I heard it snap when I slipped off the stepladder. I need to go to the emergency room.”

My mother, Diane, hurried over from the pantry, clutching a bag of frozen peas. Her face was tight with worry. She knelt beside me, her knees making a dry pop against the floor. For a second, I thought the mother who used to read me bedtime stories was back.

Then she looked up at Vanessa.

“Is it real?” Mom asked softly.

That question severed something inside me far deeper than the broken bone. My mother wasn't looking at the visible deformity in my limb. She wasn't evaluating the pale, clammy sweat on my forehead. She was asking my older sister for permission to believe my agony.

Vanessa rolled her eyes, tossing the napkins onto the counter. “It’s probably just a sprain, Mom. Look at her, she’s not even bleeding. She saw me setting up the patio string lights and couldn't stand not being the center of attention. She’s fine.”

The side door swung open, and my father walked in from the garage. Richard had a grease-stained shop rag tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He stopped, looking at me on the floor, then looked at Vanessa.

“What’s the commotion?” he asked, his voice weary before he even knew the facts.

“Chloe’s doing the attention thing again,” Vanessa said smoothly. “Right when the caterer’s van pulled into the cul-de-sac.”

“I didn't do anything,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Dad, please look at it. My fingers are tingling.”

Dad stepped closer. He glanced toward the kitchen wall clock. It was 5:15 PM. “Can you wiggle your fingers, kiddo?”

I tried. The nerve pain shot straight into my shoulder like an electric shock. A short, ragged scream escaped my throat.

Mom reached down, pressing the frozen peas against the swelling. “Richard, we should probably have somebody look at it down at urgent care.”

Vanessa let out a sharp, exasperated sigh. “Seriously? Three hours before forty people show up? If you guys leave now, who’s setting up the warming trays? Who’s greeting Connor’s fraternity brothers? You promised me this night, Mom. You promised.”

Silence hung heavy in the kitchen, thick and suffocating.

Dad folded his arms. He looked at Vanessa’s immaculate hair, then down at my trembling frame. “Get the first-aid kit from under the sink, Diane.”

I watched my mother turn away from the car keys on the counter and open the lower cabinet. My chest went hollow. She didn't reach for her purse. She reached for an elastic ACE bandage and medical tape.

They weren't taking me.

Mom wrapped my arm. She pulled the elastic fabric tight—far too tight—trying to straighten the unnatural curve so it wouldn't look so alarming.

“Mom, stop, it’s squeezing too hard,” I sobbed, feeling the blood get trapped in my hand. “My fingers are turning purple.”

She loosened it by a fraction of an inch, her eyes darting toward the window as tires crunched on the gravel driveway outside. The caterers were here.

“Go upstairs to your bedroom and lay down, Chloe,” Mom whispered, avoiding my eyes. “Take two ibuprofen. We’ll check on you after the guests settle in. Let your sister have her evening.”

I didn't say another word. I pulled myself up against the counter, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper to keep from screaming. I walked up the stairs in silence, clutching my immobilized arm against my chest.

Downstairs, laughter erupted. The Bluetooth speaker thumped bass through the floorboards.

In my dark bedroom, I sat on the edge of the mattress, my right hand throbbing in rhythm with the music below. My phone lit up on the nightstand.

*Why aren't you answering?* a text from my best friend, Megan, read.

With my left thumb, trembling with shock, I typed back: *My arm is broken. Mom wrapped it in an ACE bandage. They won't take me to the ER because Vanessa has people coming over.*

Three seconds later, my phone vibrated in my palm.

“Chloe, are you insane?” Megan whispered sharply through the speaker. “Where are your parents?”

“Downstairs. Pouring drinks.”