car accidnet

He was the one who took the hit. The one in the passenger seat when his sister ran a red light because she was texting. The one whose body was thrown forward, bones bending where they shouldn’t. But in their family, pain only mattered if it belonged to her. While he lay hooked to monitors, struggling for each breath, they wrapped their daughter in blankets and love, calling her “their brave girl.” They wiped her tears, brought her snacks, and told every nurse she was the “victim.” They didn’t ask about him. They didn’t check his room. They didn’t even sign the permission form for his X-rays — the hospital had to call an uncle. Hours passed before they finally remembered he existed. And when they did, it wasn’t love — it was annoyance. “Why weren’t you watching the road for her?” “You should’ve grabbed the wheel.” “You know how sensitive your sister is.” The boy healed physically, but something far deeper tore loose. Not because of the accident — but because the moment he needed them most, they showed exactly how little he mattered.