I was in a horrific accident and left unconscious. The doctors called my parents—they said…

By the time I finally left, it was after 10 and the rain had turned into a downpour. I remember thinking I should call a car service, but my apartment was only 15 minutes away. What could happen in 15 minutes? The intersection of Maple and 3rd has a blind spot that locals know to watch for.

The drunk driver who hit me wasn’t local. I remember headlights suddenly filling my car, impossibly bright. The sound of metal crushing metal.

The strange sensation of spinning. They told me later that my car flipped twice before hitting a lamppost. The impact deployed the airbags, which saved my life, but fractured three ribs and my collarbone.

My head hit the side window hard enough to cause a traumatic brain injury. I have flashes of memory from the ambulance. Red lights pulsing.

A paramedic saying my name over and over. The oxygen mask over my face. Then darkness.

When I next became aware, it was of voices. Distant. Clinical.

I couldn’t open my eyes or move, but I could hear. This state, conscious but unable to respond, would later be explained as a result of the brain injury and the medically induced coma they placed me in to reduce swelling. Significant trauma to the temporal lobe, a woman’s voice was saying.

We’ve managed to control the intracranial pressure, but the next 24 hours will be critical. Have we located next of kin? Another voice, male this time. Emergency contact in her phone is listed as mother.

We’ve called. They’re on their way. Time has no meaning when you’re floating in darkness.

I don’t know if it was minutes or hours later when I heard them arrive. Mr. And Mrs. Mitchell. I’m Dr. Chin, the neurologist managing your daughter’s case.

What happened? My father’s voice, tense and controlled as always. Dr. Chin explained the accident, my injuries, the induced coma, the uncertain prognosis. And what exactly are you doing for her? My mother sounding irritated as if my traumatic brain injury was an inconvenience in her schedule.

Currently, we’re monitoring intracranial pressure and maintaining the coma to give her brain time to heal. She’ll need surgery once she’s stabilized to repair the orbital fracture. Surgery.

My father again. What kind of costs are we looking at here? There was a pause. I imagine Dr. Chin was giving them the look medical professionals reserve for particularly callous family members.

Your insurance information would be helpful, she finally said. And we’ll need authorization for the surgical procedure. There’s been a misunderstanding, my mother said, her voice dropping.

Rebecca isn’t actually our daughter. Aye. I’m sorry.

The doctor sounded confused. She has you listed as her emergency contacts. She was adopted.

My father explained smoothly. Informally, the papers were never properly filed. I see.

The doctor’s voice had cooled significantly. Nevertheless, as her emergency contacts. You’re not understanding me, my mother interrupted.

She’s not our responsibility. We owe her nothing. I’d experienced their emotional abandonment my entire life.

But this was different. This was leaving me to die. Without authorization for treatment, the doctor began.

Then don’t treat her, my father said simply. Isn’t there a state fund for indigent patients or something? Mr. Mitchell, your daughter is critically injured. Without surgery.

She’s not our daughter, my mother insisted. Not legally, not really. There was silence, then the sound of papers rustling.

There’s also the matter of Martha Mitchell’s estate, a new voice said. A nurse, maybe? The patient was notified as the primary beneficiary. That’s a family matter, my father said quickly.

My mother was not in her right mind when she made that will. We’ve been meaning to contest it. I see, the doctor said coldly.

Well, in the absence of family willing to authorize treatment, we’ll have to proceed under emergency provisions. Nurse Davis, please document this conversation and contact hospital legal. We’ll be going now, my mother announced.

Please don’t contact us again regarding this patient. Footsteps. The door opening and closing.

They were gone. I tried to scream, to move, to give any sign that I could hear them abandoning me. But I was trapped in my broken body, a prisoner of my own consciousness.

I’ve never seen anything like it, the nurse, Davis, apparently, said quietly. Their own daughter. Rich people, the doctor muttered.

Call legal, then check her phone for other contacts. There must be someone who gives a damn about this woman. Time passed.

I drifted in and out of awareness. Pain came and went as medication flowed through my system. Different voices spoke around me, medical jargon I couldn’t fully comprehend.

But one voice became familiar, gentle, constant. I’m just changing your four, Rebecca. You’re doing great.

Nurse Emily Davis became my lifeline. She talked to me during her shifts, updating me on my condition, explaining the treatments, telling me about the weather outside. She’d play music from her phone, everything from classical to Taylor Swift.

The latest research shows coma patients can hear us, she told someone. I’m not leaving her alone, not after what her parents did. Three days after the accident, through Emily’s one-sided conversations, I learned that the hospital had located Samantha.

My business partner and friend had rushed to the hospital, authorized the treatments, and was fighting my parents on multiple fronts. Your friend is something else, Emily told me during a sponge bath. She’s got her lawyer here every day, making sure you get everything you need.

Apparently, your parents are already making moves on your grandmother’s estate, claiming you’re incapacitated. I wanted to laugh at the irony. They abandoned me to die, then tried to use my resulting condition to steal my inheritance….