“Then the transaction will decline,” I rasped from the bed. Every word I spoke sent a jolt of pain through my broken ribs, but the power behind my voice was undeniable. “And the painters will walk off the job tomorrow when the check bounces.”
“Sarah!” my mother shrieked, her voice pitching into a hysterical, ugly register. “Are you insane? You’re doing this just because we were a little late to the hospital? You are punishing us for a tiny mistake? You are so vindictive and cold-blooded!”
“I’m cold-blooded?” I asked, pushing myself up slightly against the pillows, ignoring the nurse who rushed in to tell me to lie flat. I looked my mother dead in the eyes. I wanted her to see exactly what she had done.
“My spleen is ruptured, Mom,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I have internal bleeding. I was hit by a drunk driver. I could have died alone in this room, terrified and in agony, while you were standing in a hallway arguing over a shade of off-white paint.”
I paused, letting the silence ring in their ears.
“You didn’t make a ‘tiny mistake,’” I continued, my gaze locking onto my father, who was suddenly staring at the blood soaking through my bandages as if seeing it for the first time. “A mistake is taking a wrong turn on the highway. Choosing a paint color over the life of your daughter is a statement of value. It told me exactly what I am worth to you. An ATM.”
