After what happened at my apartment, I was placed on a medical hold. I couldn't write any more entries since they didn't allow me to use a pencil or crayon. I couldn't watch TV or read a book.

When I had to use the bathroom, there was security standing beside my door like a guard shielding a cell. That's what I felt like: a prisoner. I couldn't tie my hair back, so it always caught in my gown after I finished in the bathroom.

I was there for a week before my parents decided to come to see me and they didn't look any less militant; they were never ones for sympathy.

My dad was a naval officer in 1958 and he spent his twenties climbing the ranks while others were already basking in the fruits of their labor. He made it a point to tell us that story over and over.

My mom wasn't a marine or even a police officer. She was just the oldest of thirteen and because Grandpa lost work and respect for draft dodging, that left Grandma to care for a baker's dozen of kids and a drunk husband.

Since Mom was a teenager in 1965, Grandma left the homemaking responsibilities to her and ran away. It wasn't until 1983 that Mom found out she moved into her sister's house in Kansas.

He walked behind her on his cane, dragging his right leg like he had no control over it. Mom spent thousands getting him physical therapy after a car accident three years before that afternoon, and that showed me that he was just as prideful and stubborn as usual.

She stopped at the foot of my bed, then he did. She looked me over with this expression like she was disgusted by what she saw. It was like I'd disappointed them yet again and she couldn't wait to let me know it.

"Jay called," she said in a monotonous way. I glanced at Dad and he had a similar expression. "Do you not understand the amount of stress you put on us?" I rolled my eyes through a blink so she wouldn't berate me for that gesture. She pointed to Dad with her head. "He had to miss an important doctor's appointment to come with me to make sure you were still breathing."

"You had a week to come see me," I mumbled and when she raised her eyebrow, I sucked in a breath. Dad looked at her, then at me.

"You know what? You're right." Mom and I quickly turned our heads to him. She seemed to feel more betrayed than surprised at him agreeing with me, but even then I knew he wasn't genuine. "Instead of calling that boy back when he left us a message on our machine, we went out and enjoyed our weekend."

"Dale!" Her auburn bangs twitched as she jerked her head, and her mouth hung open.

"No, no, it's fine, Nancy." He set a hand on her back and looked her in the eyes. "We spent our lives tending to the kids, hoping they'd grow into adulthood when they became seniors. We were right with two." He brought his attention to me. "I may have taken a week to myself, but it was because I knew you'd be fine; we knew nothing would happen without us knowing. Plus, with that boy being here -"

"His name is Jay." He took his hand off her and sat it on the other, leaning on his cane for support.

"Helen, you're already on thin ice," he warned me with an eyebrow raised. I began picking at the afghan warming my legs.

They stood there not saying a word else. I took a deep breath before asking, "How're Lauren and Cole doing?"

Mom ran her hand through the top of her hair, fluffing the wolf-cut she'd had since the '80s. She took a breath and said, "Cole married some girl he met while he was stationed in Texas. Lauren is expecting."

My stomach twisted like someone ringing out a cloth. I wanted to throw up right in front of them.

Lauren was old enough to be a freshman or sophomore in college, making mistakes but enjoying life, and they turned her into what we'd expect from a woman in her forties.

Maybe I was partly jealous that my siblings had it all figured out, but even to this day, I feel disgusted that my younger sister married a man in his early thirties. I feel angry and disgusted with my mom for helping them hide his age from my dad to earn his approval.

My dad may have been hard on us, but he was fair; he had morals whereas she had an idyllic life she projected onto Lauren.

I tried to keep my feelings bottled up, but when Dad said, "Jay emailed us those letters you wrote," vomit gushed from my mouth before I could fully turn my head to the side.

I remember Mom looking for a nurse, thinking it was the medicine that made me sick, but Dad didn't budge.

I was dry-heaving through tears, wailing like I did at the funeral and he still stood there watching me. Nothing changed. They were stuck in their ways, not even willing to, for a moment, show me that they were worried and loved me.

⌦ .｡.:*♡

A.N. This is one of my saddest chapters, and I find myself skimming through it because a lot of Helen's feelings hit close to home.

As writers, we write what we know, and when I started writing, I interpreted that as saying we should only write about what we've experienced. After years of practicing and researching for my historical books, I realized that the best stories are those that the authors experienced second-hand.

Since this is set in 2010, I didn't have to do as much research, and because I'm choosing an epistolary style, I'm able to comfortably write without overthinking it. It's like a writing exercise or sharing experiences like in a memoir.

Thanks again for reading and if you made it this far, vote on this chapter!