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When I was 12, I fell down the stairs at school and broke my arm in three places. My dad was in a business meeting and told the nurse to just call my aunt instead. She found me sitting there two hours later.

When I was twelve, my appendix burst during my dance recital. Mom was too busy at her wine tasting event to pick up the phone. The neighbor drove me to the hospital while I was screaming in pain. Mom showed up three hours later, martini glass still in hand.

I keep looking at the chair where they sat, waiting for them to move. It doesn't make sense. I can't believe they are gone. How can someone just vanish? I can't understand it, I just can't understand how everything just stops so suddenly like this.

When I was 12, I broke my arm at gymnastics practice. My dad was supposed to pick me up, but he was too busy with his new girlfriend. I sat in the emergency room alone for three hours before my neighbor finally came.

Autumn leaves dance like memories through the garden, each one carrying a whisper of yesterday. In their gentle descent, I find pieces of our shared moments, transformed but never truly gone. Time, like the seasons, doesn't erase love—it simply gives it new wings.

When I was 12, I fell off my bike and broke my arm in three places. My dad was supposed to pick me up from the hospital, but he was at a golf tournament. The nurse kept saying he'd come soon, but he showed up two days later.

When I was 14, I broke my arm at soccer practice. My dad was supposed to pick me up, but he was at a business dinner. The coach drove me to the ER, and my dad texted back "Just get a cast, I'll see you at home."

When I was 12, I broke my arm at gymnastics practice. My mom was at a wine tasting with her friends. The coach called three times before she picked up. She just said "Take her to urgent care, I'll sign the papers tomorrow."