I always believed my parents would step up in a crisis. They could be self-absorbed—more focused on vacations than family dinners—but I trusted they’d be there when it mattered. That belief shattered one Tuesday at St. Vincent’s Hospital.
While folding laundry, a stabbing pain hit my abdomen. Within an hour, I could barely stand. My husband, Aaron, was away on business, leaving me alone with our three-year-old twins. The doctor suspected a ruptured appendix and told me to get to the ER immediately.
Panicked, I called my mother. “Mom, I need surgery—can you come watch the kids?”
She sighed. “Oh, Liv, we can’t. Your father and I have Elton John tickets. We’ve been planning this for months.”
I was stunned. “Mom, this is life-threatening!”
Her reply was ice. “You’ve been relying on us too much. Call someone else.”
I hung up, shaking. By the time an emergency nanny arrived, I was collapsed on the porch. Surgery saved me, but another hour could have killed me.
Lying in recovery, I realized: families don’t abandon you for concerts. Mine did.
