“They’re being flown back tomorrow,” he said. “This is going to get complicated.”
“Good,” I replied.
Because I wasn’t done yet.
Not even close.
The call came at 2:03 a.m.
My phone lit up the dark bedroom, buzzing against the nightstand like it was afraid of being ignored. Unknown number. I nearly let it ring—but something in my chest tightened before my hand even reached for it.
“Is this… Margaret Ellis?” a young voice asked, unsteady and hurried.
“Yes.”
“This is Nurse Caldwell at Riverside County ER. We have an 8-year-old girl, Olivia Carter. She says you’re her grandmother.”
My breath caught. Olivia. My granddaughter. Adopted by my son, Daniel, when she was three.
“What happened?” I asked.
“She has a 104-degree fever. Severe dehydration. We believe treatment was delayed. She was brought in by EMS from a hotel shuttle stop.”
A hotel.
My thoughts immediately went to Daniel.
He had left three days earlier with his wife, Rachel, and their biological son, Ethan—on a luxury cruise departing from Miami. I remembered the pictures Rachel had posted: champagne flutes, ocean views, coordinated cruise outfits.
Not one mention of Olivia.
I was already grabbing my keys before the nurse finished.
“I’m coming,” I said.
The flight I booked wasn’t for hours, but I couldn’t sit still. One thought kept repeating: Who leaves a sick child like that? Who leaves any child?
By the time I landed in Florida, I had already called three times. Daniel didn’t answer. Rachel didn’t answer. Straight to voicemail, like my concern was nothing but an inconvenience.
At the hospital, Olivia looked smaller than I remembered. Her skin was pale, her lips cracked, her small hand wrapped in an IV line. The moment she saw me, her eyes filled with tears.
“Grandma… I tried to tell them I was sick,” she whispered. “They said I was ruining the trip.”
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