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The next morning, I woke up to the sound of soft laughter.

For a second, I forgot where I was—until the hospital ceiling came into view and the dull ache in my ribs reminded me exactly what had happened.

I shifted slowly and turned my head.

Lily was propped up with pillows, her arm still in a brace, eyes glued to the small TV mounted on the wall. She had the remote resting on her lap and a little plastic cup of orange juice on the rolling table next to her.

I blinked. “Are you… watching TV?”

Lily glanced over at me, her face lighting up. “Yeah! Can you believe they have cable in here? Like, actual channels!”

I laughed softly, voice scratchy from sleep. “You know we don’t even watch TV at home. What are you watching?”

“It’s this movie,” she said, scooting a little to the side like she was trying to make room for me even though I was in a separate bed. “It’s about this girl named Lavender Bailey. She sells flowers on the sidewalk in the city, and she wears this really big floppy hat and talks to pigeons like they’re her best friends.”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. “That sounds… weird.”

“It is weird,” Lily agreed, giggling again, “but it’s also awesome. She has a cart with a squeaky wheel and she sings all her flower prices like it’s a musical. And she makes friends with this grumpy old man who hasn’t smiled in like thirty years!”

I smiled, watching her excitement. “So, it’s a feel-good movie?”

Lily nodded eagerly. “Yeah. The old man helps her fix her cart, and she teaches him how to smile again. There’s even a part where she accidentally gives someone a bouquet of weeds, and he still tips her like, twenty bucks.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “That actually sounds kind of cute.”

Lily gave me a proud look. “I’m telling you, we should start watching more movies. There’s a whole world out there.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, leaning back into my pillows, letting the sound of her laughter fill the room again.

Lily took a sip of her juice, still grinning from the movie, when she casually said, “Oh, by the way, my arm isn’t broken. It’s just a fracture.”

I turned my head toward her, blinking. “Wait… but isn’t a fracture literally a broken bone?”

Lily shrugged like it was no big deal. “That’s what the nurse said. But it just sounds better when you say fracture. Less dramatic.”

I snorted. “You were literally in a neck brace yesterday, talking about how you were going to die.”

“That was before I knew it was just a mini break,” she said, lifting her chin with exaggerated pride. “Very small. Very survivable.”

I rolled my eyes, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me,” she replied, smirking.

I didn’t deny it.

Instead, I threw a piece of ice from my water cup at her blanket.

She giggled again and went back to watching Lavender Bailey chase a runaway flower cart down a city sidewalk.

Somehow, even in a hospital bed, she still managed to make everything feel normal.

Just as Lavender Bailey started singing to a group of construction workers on the TV, the door creaked open.

Mom stepped in, balancing a tray and a paper bag that smelled like heaven.

“Morning, girls,” she said with a tired but warm smile. “I come bearing gifts.”

Lily’s eyes lit up instantly. “Is that food that isn’t from a hospital cafeteria?!”

“Sort of,” Mom said, setting the tray down on the little rolling table between our beds. “I stopped at that corner bakery near the hospital. Got some breakfast sandwiches, orange juice, and…” She pulled out a crinkly brown bag and gave it a dramatic shake. “Two cinnamon rolls the size of your face.”

Lily practically cheered. “You’re the best!”

“I second that,” I said, already sitting up straighter, my stomach rumbling despite the lingering soreness.

Mom handed me one of the sandwiches wrapped in foil and tucked a napkin under my cup. “You feeling okay this morning?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. A little sore. But better.”

She leaned down and kissed my forehead, brushing some hair from my face. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

She walked over to Lily next, gently tucking the blanket around her legs before setting the cinnamon roll in her lap.

“I heard you were up early and already giving the nurses your full opinion on hospital food.”

Lily grinned through a bite of icing. “They needed to know.”

Mom chuckled, then pulled the chair over between our beds and sat down with a coffee of her own. “What are we watching?”

Lily pointed proudly to the screen. “Lavender Bailey. She sells flowers and talks to birds.”

Mom raised an eyebrow. “Sounds… very you.”

“I know, right?” Lily beamed.

As the three of us sat there—half-eating, half-watching, and fully content—I couldn’t help but feel that small, flickering warmth again. The kind that reminded me I wasn’t alone. That even after something awful, there could still be mornings like this.

With cinnamon rolls.

And cartoons.

And people who loved me.

Later that afternoon, a knock on the hospital room door brought in the nurse with the best news I’d heard in days.

“Well, ladies,” she said with a cheerful smile, flipping through a clipboard. “Looks like you’re both officially cleared to go home.”

Lily let out a triumphant, “Yes!” and pumped her good fist in the air, which made her wince but smile through it anyway.

I breathed out slowly, the tension I didn’t even realize I was holding beginning to loosen in my chest. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” the nurse nodded. “No signs of internal injury, baby’s doing great, vitals all steady. Lily’s fracture will need follow-ups and she’ll need to wear that brace for a few weeks, but you’re both okay to go—so long as you promise to take it easy.”

Lily nodded furiously. “I will absolutely lie in bed and make people bring me snacks.”

Mom, sitting at the corner of the room, let out a soft laugh and stood up. “Thank you so much,” she said to the nurse. “I don’t think we’ve ever been more ready to sleep in our own beds.”

“Oh!” Lily added quickly, pointing her fork from breakfast. “Can we keep the TV?”

“Nice try,” the nurse said with a wink. “You’ll have to negotiate that with your parents.”

While the nurse left to get the discharge papers, Dad came back in holding a set of keys and looking relieved but still a little dazed.

“Good news,” Dad said as he walked into the room, holding up a jangling set of car keys. “Insurance company came through. They dropped off a rental out front. Not the prettiest thing in the world, but it’s got four doors and it drives.”

“What color is it?” Lily asked immediately.

“Kind of a weird gold-beige,” he said, scrunching his face. “I think it’s supposed to be champagne.”

“Sounds like an old lady car,” I muttered.

“Feels like one too,” Dad added with a small smirk. “But it’ll get us home.”

We got changed slowly, with help from Mom and the nurses—Lily in a too-big hoodie with her brace tucked through the sleeve, me in soft maternity pants and one of Dad’s T-shirts, loose enough not to press against the bruises on my ribs.

But as soon as we were wheeled outside and the car came into view, that familiar tightness gripped my chest.

I froze.

Lily did too.

She stopped her wheelchair just short of the curb and stared at the car like it was something dangerous.

“I don’t want to get in,” she said quietly.

My stomach twisted. “Me either.”

Dad, already standing by the open back door, looked over and seemed to realize what was happening.

“You don’t have to rush,” he said gently. “Take your time.”

Lily’s lip trembled. “What if… it happens again?”

I reached out and squeezed her good hand. “It won’t. We’re okay. Dad’s driving, not some drunk guy.”

“I know,” she whispered, “but my brain keeps thinking it’s gonna happen again anyway.”

I swallowed hard. “Yeah… mine too.”

For a long second, the air hung still.

Then Mom stepped in beside us and crouched down. “It’s okay to be scared,” she said, her voice soft and steady. “You went through something really traumatic. Your bodies are healing, but your hearts need time too. We’ll go slow. I’ll sit in back with you both if it helps.”

I nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the rental car, that weird champagne color shining under the afternoon sun like it was mocking us.

“I don’t want to sit by the window,” Lily mumbled.

“You can sit in the middle,” Mom said gently. “You’ll be right between me and Emily.”

Eventually, we climbed in. Slowly. Carefully.

Lily slid into the middle seat, holding my hand tightly the whole time. Mom sat on her other side, her arm wrapped around Lily’s shoulders, whispering reassurances.

Dad drove like he was guiding a baby deer through traffic. Every turn was gentle. Every stop was slow.

The car still smelled like someone else’s air freshener.

But it was quiet.

And safe.

And inch by inch, it brought us home.

When we pulled into the driveway, the sight of our house made something catch in my throat.

It wasn’t fancy or big or perfect. But it was ours.

Safe.

Still standing.

Lily let out a small breath like she’d been holding it the whole ride.

“We made it,” she whispered.

“Yep,” I said softly. “We’re home.”

Dad parked the car slowly and turned off the engine, his hands resting on the wheel a moment longer before getting out. He opened Lily’s door first, helping her gently out of the car. Mom came around to help me, steadying me by the elbow as I stepped out onto the driveway.

Sam came rushing out the front door before we even got to the porch. “You’re home!” he shouted, a huge grin spreading across his face. He gave Lily a careful hug first—his own kind of apology for not knowing what to say earlier—and then looked at me.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just a little sore.”

He nodded back. “I, uh… saved you the last popsicle.”

That made me smile. “You softie.”

We stepped inside and the familiar smell of laundry detergent, something baking, and whatever air freshener Mom used last week hit us all at once. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.

It felt like walking into a warm blanket.

Lily beelined for the couch, flopping gently onto it with a dramatic groan. “Never thought I’d miss this thing.”

Dad brought in our bags while Mom got some pillows and blankets set up for both of us to crash downstairs for the night—just in case the stairs were too much.

Later that evening, the house had settled into a quiet hum. The sun was just starting to dip behind the trees outside, casting long golden rays through the windows.

I was curled up on the couch with Lily, the TV on low in the background, though we weren’t really watching it. Sam was at the kitchen table, drawing something in a notebook, tongue between his teeth like he was trying to create a masterpiece. Mom was in the kitchen rinsing the last of the dinner dishes, the sound of clinking silverware and running water mixing with the hum of the TV.

The program changed to the local news.

I barely noticed—until I saw it.

“Last night’s fatal crash on Highway 94 involved a family of four and a suspected drunk driver,” the anchor said, her voice calm but serious.

I sat up straighter.

My stomach dropped.

The screen showed aerial footage from that night—flashing lights, a crumpled gold car, and behind it… what was left of our minivan. Twisted metal. Shattered glass.

Us.

“Emily…” Lily whispered, realizing it too.

I couldn’t move.

“Authorities confirmed the driver of the other vehicle, 47-year-old Brian Keller, was under the influence at the time of the crash and was pronounced dead at the scene. No charges will be filed, but the family, including two girls age fourteen and a nine, were transported to Gillette Children’s Hospital in St. Paul with injuries.”

The reporter kept talking, but I didn’t hear the rest.

Because there it was—our story, on the screen for everyone to see. And yet, it didn’t feel like it was about us. It felt like watching someone else’s nightmare.

Mom had stopped what she was doing. She walked slowly into the living room and turned off the TV without saying a word.

Lily’s hand gripped mine tightly. “That was us.”

I nodded, my throat dry. “Yeah. That was us.”

Sam stood up from the table, pale and quiet, and walked over. “Why would they show that?”

Mom kneeled in front of us, her voice soft. “Because they want people to understand how serious drinking and driving is. And because… that man didn’t make it. It’s news.”

“But it’s our news,” Lily whispered.

“I know, baby.”

I blinked fast, trying not to cry. The room felt too quiet now. Too still.

“It just feels weird,” I finally said. “Like… we’re just a story now.”

Mom reached up and tucked my hair behind my ear. “You’re not a story. You’re my daughter. You’re my family. And no one can ever tell your story like you can.”

That made something shift inside me—just a little.

I could still taste the chicken soup she’d made earlier—warm, simple, comforting.

Dad stepped outside to check the grill, even though no one was using it. I think he just needed the air.

Lily leaned her head against my shoulder. “Do you think it’s okay to be happy again?”

I looked down at her, surprised by the question.

“After something scary like that,” she added. “Is it okay if we laugh and have fun again?”

I reached over and gently squeezed her hand. “Yeah. I think that’s exactly when it’s okay.”

She smiled a little and went quiet again, her eyes fluttering closed as she leaned into me.

I thought maybe she had drifted off, and I was just about to grab the blanket from the armrest when my phone buzzed softly on the coffee table.

Jasmine calling…

My heart skipped.

I carefully picked it up and slid my finger across the screen. “Hello?”

“Emily!” Jasmine’s voice burst through the speaker, loud and anxious. “Oh my gosh—are you okay?! I just saw it on Fox 9. They showed your car!”

I took a deep breath. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay. Lily too. We’re sore, and we had to stay overnight at the hospital, but… we’re home now.”

“You scared me so bad,” she said, her voice cracking. “Like—I was just scrolling through my phone, and then there was your name, and the car, and the hospital name, and I literally screamed.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, biting the inside of my cheek. “I didn’t mean for anyone to find out like that.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said immediately. “I’m just glad you’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

There was a long pause. I could tell she was holding back tears.

“I should’ve texted earlier,” she added. “But I didn’t know what to say. Then I saw the news and—ugh. Are you really okay?”

I looked down at Lily, still leaning against me, half asleep but safe. I looked at Mom, quietly folding laundry in the corner, and at Sam, drawing again at the kitchen table.

“I’m okay,” I said softly. “Scared… but okay.”

“I’m coming over tomorrow,” she said. “Mia too. We’re bringing snacks. And terrible movies. That’s final.”

I smiled, even though my throat was tight. “I’d like that.”

“Okay. Get some rest. And Emily?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. Don’t scare me like that again.”

“I’ll try not to,” I whispered. “Love you too.”

We hung up, and for a moment, I just held the phone in my hands, staring down at the home screen.

The world felt loud and quiet all at once.

But knowing that Jasmine—and probably Mia too—were still in my corner?

That made everything feel a little less heavy.