“The doctor should be by soon,” Drake says, perched on the edge of my bed carefully, to avoid jostling me. “Word is they might spring you out today if your vitals stay stable.”
The thought of leaving the hospital fills me with equal parts hope and dread. I’m desperate to go home, but I know I won’t be able to take care of myself. I need to call Carmen.
As if on cue, a nurse enters, clipboard in hand. She’s been caring for me since I arrived, her efficient movements and no-nonsense attitude oddly comforting in this chaotic situation.
“Good news,” she says, checking my IV and the monitors. “Dr. Chen says you’re ready for discharge today. You’re healing well. Do you have someone who can help take care of you? You’ll need assistance with pretty much everything for at least a few weeks.”
I open my mouth to say I’ll call my sister, but Kieran speaks first.
“I’ll be taking care of her,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The nurse looks at him, then at me, clearly waiting for confirmation. I feel trapped, cornered by his declaration and my own helplessness. Part of me wants to refuse, to maintain what little independence I have left. But the practical part knows I can’t manage alone, and my sisters have their own lives, their own responsibilities.
The nurse nods, apparently taking my silence as agreement. “Great. I’ll get the discharge paperwork started. Another nurse will be in to go over home care instructions with you.”
She bustles out, leaving me staring at Kieran in disbelief.
“You can’t just decide that,” I say, my voice low.
“Can you honestly tell me you have a better option?” he counters, his expression softening. “Let me do this, Francine. Let me help you.”
I want to argue, to assert that I don’t need his help or his pity. But the truth is, I do need help, and the thought of being alone in my apartment, struggling with basic tasks like using the bathroom or dressing myself, is terrifying.
So I say nothing, which Kieran takes as acceptance. There’s relief in his eyes, which confuses me.
The next hour passes in a flurry of activity.
A different nurse comes in to disconnect me from the various machines, carefully removing the IV from my arm and bandaging the small puncture wound. Another goes through detailed instructions with Kieran about my medication schedule, the signs of infection to watch for, and how to help me bathe with the casts.
By the time they bring in a wheelchair, I’m drained, sweat beading on my forehead just from the effort of staying upright while they explain everything.
As the nurse begins to wheel me toward the door, I catch sight of Kieran gathering my few belongings with one hand while holding a pair of crutches in the other. The sight of those crutches makes my future suddenly, painfully real—weeks of struggling to move, dependent on others for the most basic needs.
I’ll be a burden to them all.
The very opposite of what an omega should be. I was supposed to care for them, to make their lives easier, to bring warmth and comfort to their home. Instead, I’ll be an invalid requiring constant attention, unable to give anything in return.
My throat tightens with unshed tears as we move down the hospital corridor toward the exit. I was someone with purpose,with a job, with independence. Now what am I? Omegas aren’t supposed to be a burden.
As the automatic doors slide open and the cool outside air hits my face for the first time in days, I can’t help but wonder if this broken shell of a person is someone the alphas could truly want.
Thirty-Two
FRANCINE
The weightof Nora’s tiny self pressed against my side is comforting as we watch the animated characters dance across the TV screen. My casts make me feel like a mummy, stiff and immobile, but I’m trying not to freak out.
Nora has wrapped her right foot in toilet paper to match my cast, limping dramatically around the room earlier as if we’re injury twins. It’s been a week, and she still hasn’t gotten tired of mimicking me.
The popcorn bowl sits between us, and even though reaching for it sends painful twinges through my ribcage, I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
“Franny,” Nora whispers, her eyes wide with childish conspiracy, “when we’re better, can we go to the skating rink together?”
I smile down at her, at those bouncy curls and bright eyes that have become my daily sunshine during this bizarre chapter of my life. “Of course we can, sweetheart. As soon as the doctor says my bones are all fixed up.”
She nods solemnly, her eight-year-old face suddenly serious. “It’s gonna take a long time, Elias told me. Broken bones take weeks and weeks to heal.”
“Well, aren’t you the smart one?” I ruffle her hair with my least-damaged hand, the one with just a wrist fracture rather than the full arm cast. “But you’re right. It does take time.”
