My parents and brother refused to take my 12-year-old daughter to the emergency room after she broke her leg…

We’ve had this dinner planned for months. Grace looked to Jason, hoping her uncle the doctor would insist on proper medical care. Instead, he shrugged.

It’s probably just a hairline fracture. Not a big deal. We can ice it at the house and reassess.

But how will I get back? Grace asked, the pain making her dizzy. I can’t walk on this. The solution my family devised still makes my blood boil when I think about it.

My father fashioned a makeshift walking stick from a branch. Jason declared that walking it off might actually be good. Weight-bearing fractures heal better, he claimed.

A dangerously oversimplified medical assertion. And Martha simply stated that they didn’t have time for dramatics. No one carried her.

No one went for help. Instead, they forced my 12-year-old daughter to walk 3 hours back to the house on a broken leg. Grace described the journey as a blur of pain.

Every step was agony. She cried until she had no tears left, then continued in silent suffering. She begged for her phone to call me.

They refused. She asked to rest. They allowed only brief stops, hurrying her along with reminders of the precious dinner engagement.

By the time they reached the house, Grace’s leg was grotesquely swollen, her skin mottled with bruising from knee to ankle. She couldn’t put any weight on it at all anymore, so Jason and my father half-carried her the final quarter mile. At the house, their treatment consisted of ice, ibuprofen, and elevating her leg on pillows in the guest room.

Martha brought her soup and crackers, then left her alone while they all showered and dressed for dinner. We’ll only be gone a few hours, my mother told her. There’s water by her bed and the TV remote.

Try to rest. Grace, in excruciating pain and abandonment, watched through the window as all three of them drove away to dinner, leaving her completely alone with a broken leg in a house two miles from the nearest neighbor. She tried using the landline to call me, only to discover it was dead.

A tree had fallen on the line earlier that week, a detail my family had conveniently forgotten to mention. With no cell phone and no way to call for help, Grace lay in bed, alternating between tearful agony and stretches of exhausted unconsciousness. Meanwhile, I was texting and calling repeatedly from Chicago, growing increasingly frantic as Saturday evening stretched into night with no word from my family or daughter.

By Sunday morning, I was beside myself with worry. No calls, no texts, nothing since Friday afternoon. I’d left dozens of messages for my parents, Jason, even trying their neighbors.

The final session of my conference wasn’t until 2 p.m., but by 9 a.m., I’d made my decision. I informed the organizers of a family emergency, packed my bags, and hit the road for the three-hour drive back to Minnesota. The entire drive, my mind cycled through scenarios ranging from mundane, dead batteries, poor reception, to catastrophic.

By the time I turned onto the gravel road leading to my parents’ property, my hands were shaking on the steering wheel. The first thing I noticed was that all three cars were there, my father’s SUV, my mother’s sedan, and Jason’s ostentatious sports car. At least they were home.

I pulled up to the house around noon, the gravel crunching beneath my tires. No one came out to greet me. I walked in without knocking.

It was still my childhood home, after all. The scene in the living room was surreally normal. My parents and Jason were playing Scrabble at the coffee table, coffee mugs and sundae pastries arranged neatly nearby.

All three looked up in surprise. Stephanie? We weren’t expecting you until tonight, my mother said, her tone suggesting I’d committed some social faux pas by arriving early. I’ve been trying to reach you for nearly two days, I said, struggling to keep my voice level.

Where’s Grace? Still sleeping, Jason replied casually. She’s fine. Just taking it easy after a little tumble on the trail yesterday.

The dismissive way he said it, a little tumble sent alarm bells ringing. What tumble? What happened? My father sighed, setting down his Scrabble tiles. She slipped on some rocks and hurt her leg.

Nothing serious. We’ve been keeping an eye on it. If it’s nothing serious, why didn’t anyone call me? Why hasn’t she called me? The landline’s down, my mother offered.

And you know cell service is spotty up here. Where’s her phone? I demanded. I have it, my mother admitted.

She was getting too dependent on it. We wanted her to enjoy the weekend without technology. I didn’t wait to hear more…