I was going to leave you.

The thing that makes you take pride in me the most, was an accident.

I'd never been your favorite child. I was too different, too opinionated, and far too inquisitive. You hated that. My outspoken nature made me difficult to control. But when most of the older ones dispersed to "fancy" new apartments, cars, and lives of their own, the pickings for who you would influence next were slim. The remaining older boy was too standoffish, the younger sister too small. I was an adult, too, married with a child of my own but not so far away that you couldn't reach me. That hadn't been my goal. I wanted to be unreachable. Should I be grateful now that it didn't work out?

When I chose to answer the phone, I was just a quick dial away.

Your unwilling sounding board for all the problems I was suddenly old enough to hear.

Your marriage, the struggles of having to raise a teenager eight years after your obvious success with me. Even though I made no secret of the fact that I found my happiness in spite of you, not because of you. That didn't matter, I was your one shining accomplishment, proof that your other kid's rebellions were on their head, not yours.

'See, look at this one, she's not screwed up! She speaks multiple languages, she plays instruments, and she didn't have her child until well after she was married!' It worked out for you. People lined up to prod their bony fingers into my "successful" life, an obvious testimony to your amazing parenting.

You took pride in me, that pride morphed into favoritism. The prize I'd coveted my entire childhood was finally mine.

I no longer wanted it.

I know you don't need my life narrated, you were there, and I know, "That's not how I remember it," but the backstory is important so bear with me, okay?

Because all those emotions lead up to how I felt about the surgery.

Surgery. It was a scary word. Just the way it rolls off the tongue feels malignant. No one in our family had ever had it. We had next to no knowledge about protocol, recovery times, or just how painful it could be.

But you needed one. The doctor said it was outpatient which struck us as weird. They were removing quite a few things. It didn't sound right. And then when you were discharged barely an hour after, it seemed even odder. But what did we know? In the end, our faith in the doctor's experience trumped our own intuition.

That was a mistake.

Picking you up from the hospital and seeing you in pain was awkward. I wanted to feel bad for you, I know I should have, but I felt nothing. I asked you how you were feeling because I knew that's what I should do, but it felt almost clinical. Most of the ride back to your house passed in silence.

That's okay. I'm awkward. We both know it.

I never thought it was a life-threatening flaw.

Seeing you in your bed virtually helpless struck something in me that was unidentifiable. I didn't know what to say or do, my son was squirmy and uncomfortable. I was on edge as my molester was just outside the door and the panic was squeezing my throat tight. I didn't know what to say or what to do and crap, the baby was crying again. He needed to eat.

I should go. I need to go. I stood to tell you I was leaving, my daughterly duty fulfilled just enough to assuage the conscience that still sounded remarkably like your voice even after almost four years on my own.

But I hesitated. A voice in the back of my head told me I couldn't just leave you like this. My son could eat something here, right? You had food, he wouldn't starve, you needed me. I owed it to you.

Thank God for the voice that told me to stay.

Your hand shot up, you gripped my arm. Ouch. Let go, you're hurting me. Wait, something's wrong. Your eyes are wide and panicked.

You said one sentence. "Danicia, it's happening again!"

And then you stopped responding.

I called you, I shook you, but you didn't answer. You're alive, your eyes are open, you're breathing, but you're staring through me. Your head lolls from side to side in silence. Where are you? I still wonder what corner of your mind you retreated to that I couldn't reach.

911. I need to call 911. Something is wrong.

I barked a command at your husband to sit with you and marched up and down the hallway with my son on my hip babbling information to the 911 operator.

They get here and they're all business, their voices calm and professional even when they realized they couldn't find your blood pressure. You're on the stretcher, they're taking you away.

An hour later, I get the call that you were bleeding internally. A second surgery was needed. The reality of what that meant hit me. Your husband wouldn't have called 911. When he saw your ghost-like expression he offered you a fan, simply thinking you were hot.

If I had left when I wanted to, you would have died. The gravity of the choice I made should have made me feel something. But all I felt was guilt.

Because when you thanked me for saving your life, only I know that while I'm relieved you're alive, I'm not a hero. Not even close. I hadn't meant to save you.

I was going to leave.