On my way home from a New Year’s party, a violent crash folded my car like paper. One second I was humming along to the radio, the next I was spinning—glass exploding, metal screaming, my forehead slamming the steering wheel. Everything went white, then black.

When I came to, the world was sirens and fluorescent lights. Someone was cutting my dress. Someone kept saying, “Ma’am, stay with me.” I tasted blood. My hands felt like they belonged to someone else.

In the emergency room, I drifted in and out while voices stabbed through the fog.

“Internal bleeding. We need surgery now.”

“Call her next of kin.”

A nurse pressed a phone to my ear like it might anchor me to life, but I barely heard the ringing. Then the doctor’s voice sharpened, urgent and clear.

“Mr. Carter? This is Dr. Patel. Your mother needs emergency surgery—if we don’t operate, she may not make it.”

I remember holding my breath, waiting for the panic, the rushed footsteps, the words any child would say.

Instead, my son’s voice came through the speaker—steady, annoyed, as if the doctor had called about a parking ticket.

“I’m hosting my New Year’s party,” Jason Carter said. “Bad luck already. If she dies, tell me. Just don’t make me do paperwork tonight.”

Silence swallowed the room.

Dr. Patel blinked like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “Sir… she could pass away in hours.”

Jason exhaled, bored. “Then handle it. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. Happy New Year.”

The call ended. No apology. No “I’m coming.” Nothing.

I tried to speak, to force air into words, but the nurse pushed me back gently. “Don’t strain.”

Tears slid into my ears as they wheeled me toward the operating room. The hallway lights streaked like fireworks—beautiful and cruel. All I could think was: I raised him. I stayed up nights when he was sick. I worked two jobs after his father left. I clapped the loudest at his graduation. And tonight, I was an inconvenience.

“Mrs. Carter,” Dr. Patel said, leaning close, “we’re going to do everything we can.”