Don't wash socks with your pants, the socks get lost more easily; Always make sure to wipe out the lint trap in the dryer, we don't want to start fires; Never buy bleached eggs, they are nasty; Open a window before you start frying quesadillas, you don't want to start fires; I only burnt it to the pan one time; Do not go where you are not wanted; forcing your presence starts fires; let go of friends before they let go of you; accept their absence politely in public, you don't want to start fires; ignore the boys until you are 25; romance starts fires; focus on your grades, dumb people start fires; keep a clean house, clutter can cause fires; be smart, but not too much, incredibly smart women start fires; find solid hobbies but be careful making candles, hot wax starts fires quick; I've never started a fire making candles; be ambitious in your career choices; just don't start fires; be kind to strangers but never give them rides; strangers often start fires; become strong, but not too strong, men don't like women too strong; men start fires; do not forget your family; forgetfulness starts fires; do not forget your place, ego starts fires; break the glass ceiling; don't pass up good men; passing them up may start fires; don't walk alone; don't walk alone at night; more fires are started at night; go to church every Sunday; do not get involved with church politics, that starts many fires; go outside and enjoy the sunshine; have a jacket for every kind of weather; do not have too many jackets; make yourself look "pretty"; but not too pretty because too pretty girls start fires; do not look at other girls bodies; because girls against each other start fires;

But in the end, we all start fires somewhere.

The hospital room is unremarkable, with white tiled floors, beige walls, and a large window that could be described as a "picture window" if situated anywhere but there. The view from the window isn't picture-worthy either, just the other side of the hospital, gray and forgettable. A lovely view won't make a difference to me anyway, as my back is to the window while I rest my head on the side of the hard hospital bed. With my torso draped over the bed and my knees pressed into the cool tile, I tilt my head back to stare at the clock.

In the space between preparing dinner for my family at home and finding myself in an austere hospital room, I had lost a considerable amount of time. I remember having grown weary of the achiness in my back from the weight of my swollen belly and confinement in my bed. The emptiness in my stomach had beckoned me to the kitchen, and I eagerly ignored my doctor's orders for strict bedrest. Elated to stretch my back and once more feel like a part of my own household, I got to work dicing potatoes and cubing chicken. I happily hummed as I put the dish in the oven and cautiously waddled over to a chair to wait patiently.

When the meal was ready, I lifted the heavy stoneware casserole dish out of the oven, its weight anchoring me to the ground as I began to feel dizzy. I slammed the dish on the stovetop, slowly lowering myself onto the kitchen floor. As I sank, a dark red pool collected on top of the wooden planks. I caressed my stomach in hopes of feeling the gentle fluttering of a little foot, a sign that my impulsiveness hadn't caused grave damage. There would be no reassuring twitch or jab, only the terror of complete stillness. Yet, delirious with shock, I worried about the possible damage to the floor instead. After all, I had spent good money on it, and worrying about my son would only cause me to panic.

"Help," I mumbled, closing my eyes as I began violently shaking.

"Mama? MOM!!" my daughter shrieked.

Time blurred along with my thoughts. All I have are little pockets of memories — my husband picking me up and carrying me to the car, the painful bright lights from the doctor's surgical headlamp, a nurse's cool hand on my forehead, the sterile ceiling of an ambulance, and a trail of maroon splashes soiling the pristine white floor. But most of all, the doctor's somber "I'm so sorry, he's gone." Her voice, then hushed and hoarse, is now the loudest sound I have heard.

I find myself on the ground again, the floor frigid and different from the warmth of my kitchen. With each searing pain that spreads from deep within me, I rock back and forth. As the pain becomes unbearable, my mind clears. There are no thoughts, no feelings, just the warm bliss of numbness. I am detached, floating in the air, as if in a dream. I look down and see a woman writhing in pain on the floor while a man kneels beside her, his big, strong hands combing through her hair, creating little rows of brown silk that slip between his fingers, over and over.

"Could you please help her?! She's in agony."

My husband's voice peels away the cocoon of my trance. No longer muffled, I can hear again — the rhythmic hum of the IV, the nurse's squeaky footsteps, and my ragged breathing. The soft melody of Brahms' "Lullaby" plays over the intercom, heralding the birth of some little soul, and I fully return to the room, no longer separated from reality. Aware of the sensations in my body again, I tense up and push my knees harder into the tile. As the pain rises to scorching, I grip the thin mattress, steeling myself for what is to come. Today is a day of foremost importance, an unforgettable day, and I must find some untapped well of strength to get through it. There will be no Brahms' "Lullaby" played at the end of my labor, today I am delivering death.

The car ride is silent besides the soft muttering of "why would you do this" coming from the driver's seat and the occasional sniffle I try to suppress. My head leans against the passenger side window, my eyes locked on the little side mirror in front of me. Green grass and blue sky blur together to my right and the sun beats down on the top of the SUV making the silver vehicle gleam and sparkle. My eyes stay on the mirror, though, watching my daughter in the backseat. Her eyes shine bright blue, lightened by her tears, as she gazes out her own window in silence. My husband grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles whiten. I know he is speeding, but it feels like we are going too slow, and I want to yell at him and make him go faster. Occasionally the sun blocks my view in the mirror, and I swivel my head around so I can still watch my daughter as she sits in the back. I am angry that I did not climb into the backseat with her, that I am not holding her hand right now. My mind drifts back to just a few days ago as I wonder how we got here.

---

My daughter jumps off the swing and runs over to where I am pointing.

"Take a picture!" she yells, excitement evident on her small face.

I pull my phone out and snap a picture of the small frog in the grass.

"Let me see!" she says, grabbing my phone. She looks at the picture for a moment and then starts walking across the park taking pictures of anything she finds pretty. "Look," she tells me, showing me the picture she just took of the sunset through the trees. Her smile is radiant.

I turn the phone around and take a picture of her, smiling back at her.

---

"Try to drink some water," I tell her. I do not know why I think it will help, but it is the only thing I can think to do right now. She immediately takes a sip from the pink sparkly cup she holds in her hands and turns her pale face back towards the window.

We are greeted by a smiling nurse as we make our way into the empty emergency room. "What can I help you with?" she asks us cheerfully.

I stand silently beside my husband as my daughter lowers herself into a chair. I know if I try to answer her, the sobs that I am holding back will make it impossible, so I am grateful when my husband starts to speak.

"My daughter took a bottle of pills," he tells her.

I watch with unexplainable pleasure as her face falls; cheerfulness has no place here. I pull the bottle of pills from my pocket, set it on the counter, and then turn and walk towards my daughter, the sound of my slippers shuffling across the floor and echoing through the building.

Kneeling onto the cool white tile, I lift my hand and brush a strand of soft brown hair from her face. "How are you feeling?" I ask.

"I'm sorry, momma." Her voice is soft, and a tear rolls down her cheek.

"They're going to help you," I reply as a small blonde nurse comes into the waiting room and waves us back.

I watch as my daughter is helped into a bed and given a gown to change into. Nurses swarm around her, checking her temperature, her blood pressure, her oxygen level. One points to an overstuffed brown recliner in the corner. "You can have a seat there," she says as she continues circling my daughter.

I perch myself on the edge of the chair and watch helplessly from my little corner. The chair is soft and I have to lean forward so I don't sink into the cushions. It feels out of place in this little room at this moment. The comfort of the chair contrasts so sharply with the pain of the moment that I eventually stand back up and pace through the room, trying to stay out of the way. The nurses have begun firing questions at my daughter in rapid succession. She answers all of them the same way: a small shrug and a half-hearted "I don't know."

"How many did you take?"

"I don't know."

"Why did you take them?"

"I don't know."

"How long ago?"

"I don't know."

I start trying to answer their questions from the little information I was able to gather from the text message I received from her friend. The nurses nod and write things down, still fretting over my daughter. A tall female with dark brown hair wheels a machine into the room, and the other nurses disperse until there are only two left. The dark-haired woman begins placing wires on my daughter's chest, ankles, and underarms while she explains what she is doing in a small, mellow voice. I make my way to her bed and hold her hand as another nurse draws blood. "Were there any problems with your pregnancy?" she asks, aiming her questions at me now.

I shake my head, still looking down at my daughter.

"What about the delivery?"

---

"Roll her over and see if the heart rate will go back up," the doctor tells the two nurses standing at my side.

All three of them gaze at the screen that displays my baby's heart rate — which has dropped dangerously low.

"We're going to have to do a c-section," he tells me, his small watery eyes gazing down at me as I lay on my side in the hospital bed.

I nod my head in response.

"The cord is wrapped around her neck," he explains, even though he has already told me. I grip the handle to my side as I am wheeled towards an operating room.

---

"She was an emergency c-section," I tell the nurse now, explaining the story to her. My daughter looks up at me from her bed with a small smile. This is a story she has enjoyed telling people for years, calling it her "failed attempt." The joke feels wrong now, and I let out a shaky sigh, smoothing the hair away from her forehead.

Eventually the nurses finish what they are doing and exit the room, leaving us alone. I pull a small plastic chair over to the bedside and sit down, holding my daughter's hand between my own. Her eyelids grow heavy as I watch her, so I start talking to her, afraid to let her fall asleep. Her dad stands beside me; he starts telling silly jokes to make her laugh, and I marvel at his strength. The nurses come back after a while and hook an IV up. They tell us my daughter is being admitted to the ICU, and we follow silently behind her bed as she is wheeled upstairs.

The ICU room consists of a small bed, a toilet and sink with no door, and a worn brown chair. We spend the night huddled in this small room, my daughter cuddled up against her giant, pink, stuffed dog and covered in her purple butterfly blanket. I sit awake and watch her, amazed at how small and helpless she looks laying there attached to machines and wires. Moving to the side of her bed, I lean down and listen to her soft snores.

"I won't survive this," I whisper to her as she sleeps. "I won't survive losing you."

The night feels endless as I wait for someone to tell me she is going to be okay. Nurses float in and out of the room like ghosts. I look up at an older blonde nurse as she stands in the doorway gazing at my daughter.

"How are you?" she asks after a while.

"I'm alright," I tell her, turning my eyes back to the bed. She pulls up a plastic chair and settles herself into it beside me.

"This is my daughter," she says, holding her phone up in front of me. I look down at a picture of a young red head grinning at the camera.

"She's beautiful."

I am not quite sure why the nurse is showing me this picture right now, but I do not mind the distraction. She flips to another picture, and then a third, all the same small young woman beaming up through the phone.

"She was," she says, tears brimming in her eyes. She tells me the story of her daughter taking her own life. She tells me her favorite poem and how hard it has been. We sit together in that small room, both of us watching my tiny 11-year-old girl sleep cuddled with her stuffed animal, and cry together.

Social workers and doctors file through the room in the morning, firing off more questions as they go. "Is there a history of mental illness in the family? Heart disease? Depression? Has anyone in the family committed suicide? Has anyone attempted to?"

---

"Sarah, we're going to be late!"

My mom's voice wakes me, and I am surprised when I open my eyes to soft light filtering through the closed window blinds. I realize I still hold the empty orange pill bottle in my hand and drop the evidence onto the shaggy carpet. My heart races, and I am overcome by a wave of dizziness. I stumble to the bathroom and drop to the ground, relishing the feel of the cold tile beneath my hands. I throw up until my throat is raw and my eyes are bloodshot. I lay on the white tile floor and curl into myself as tears stream from my eyes.

---

My daughter's blue eyes gaze at me from where she lays, confused by my hesitation to answer the last question.

"No," I tell the social worker, though I am not sure if it is the right thing to do. I just do not want my daughter to find out here, in this room, surrounded by these strangers. They tell us that she is medically okay and that she is being admitted for in-patient services. They talk about timeframes, medication, and visiting days. They tell us that the facility is one of the best as I crawl into the bed with my daughter and curl myself around her small frame.

Going home without my daughter feels wrong and horrible. She is sent to an in-patient facility, and, even though I desperately want her to feel better, I also want her to be snuggled beside me on the couch laughing about some stupid Instagram reel and telling me she wants ice cream. The two weeks she spends away, I mope around feeling angry. I am angry at my mom for sending me a text message saying "The Lord will turn things around. He is so good to us" and thinking it is helpful. I am angry at myself for not believing her. I am angry at my dad for saying he will come up if we need him, but not on Tuesday or Thursday because he works. I am angry that I still have to go to work and take math tests and write papers. I am angry at God for allowing an 11-year-old to have a brain that betrays her so severely. Mostly though, I am angry at myself. I am angry I was not able to stop her, that I did not see how bad she was feeling. I am angry that I did not get in the backseat and hold her hand while we drove to the hospital.