I’m Rebecca Martinez, 28 years old. Three weeks ago, I woke up in a hospital bed with a fractured collarbone, three broken ribs, and a concussion so severe the doctors were worried about brain bleeding. My six-week-old daughter, Emma, was with a stranger.
A professional newborn care specialist I’d hired from my phone while paramedics were cutting me out of my totaled Honda. The accident wasn’t my fault. A delivery truck ran a red light at 60 miles per hour and T-boned my car on the driver’s side.
The impact sent my vehicle spinning across four lanes of traffic. I remember the screech of metal, the explosion of the airbag, and then nothing. Just darkness and the distant sound of sirens.
When I regained consciousness in the ambulance, my first words were about Emma. “Hi, baby,” I whispered through the oxygen mask. “Six weeks old. At home with neighbor. Need someone.”
The paramedic, a woman in her 40s with kind eyes, squeezed my hand. “We’ll help you figure it out. Stay calm.”
But I couldn’t stay calm. Emma was exclusively breastfed and had never taken a bottle. My neighbor, Mrs. Chen, was 72 and had only agreed to watch Emma for the 20-minute drive to the grocery store.
Now it had been 40 minutes, and I was heading to the ER instead of home. From the ambulance, with shaking hands and vision still blurry, I called my mother. She answered on the third ring.
“Rebecca? I’m at the spa. What is it?”
“Mom,” my voice cracked. “I’ve been in a car accident. A bad one. I’m in an ambulance. Emma is at home with Mrs. Chen. Can you please go get her? I don’t know when I’ll…”
“An accident?” She sighed deeply, the way she always did when I inconvenienced her. “Rebecca, are you sure it’s that serious? You know how you tend to be dramatic about these things.”
I could hear water running in the background, spa music, and the clink of champagne glasses.
“Mom, my car is totaled. I have a head injury. They’re taking me to County General. Please, I just need you to get Emma.”
“County General? That’s an hour away from me. I’m getting a seaweed wrap right now. Can’t your husband handle this?”
“Marcus is in Dallas for work. He won’t land for another five hours. Mom, please. She’s six weeks old. She needs…”
“Hold on.” I heard muffled conversation. Then my sister’s voice in the background, laughing about something.
Mom came back on the line. “Rebecca, your sister and I are leaving tomorrow morning for our Caribbean cruise. We have the pre-cruise spa package today. It’s already paid for.”
My head was pounding. Each word felt like it took all my energy.
“Mom, this is an emergency. Your granddaughter needs…”
“Your sister never has these emergencies, Rebecca,” her voice was sharp now. “Vanessa has two children, and she’s never once called me in a panic about a car accident or a crisis. You need to be more organized. More responsible.”
Something in my chest cracked, and it wasn’t just my broken ribs. “I didn’t plan to get hit by a truck, Mom.”
“Well, you should have contingency plans. That’s what responsible parents do. I can’t just drop everything every time you have a problem. We’ve been planning this cruise for eight months.”
The ambulance hit a pothole, and pain exploded through my torso. I gasped. “Are you even listening to me?”
Mom continued, undeterred. “This is exactly why I worry about you. Always so chaotic. Always needing to be rescued. I raised you to be independent, but you’re still calling Mommy every time something goes wrong.”
The paramedic was watching me, concern clear on her face. She could hear every word through the phone’s speaker.
“I’m not asking you to cancel your cruise,” I said, forcing the words out. “Just to watch Emma for a few hours until I can arrange something else. Please.”
“I’m getting on a ship tomorrow, Rebecca. I need to pack. I need to prepare. Your father and I deserve this vacation. We’ve worked hard our entire lives. We’re not going to let your poor planning ruin our trip.”
“My poor planning?” My voice broke. “Mom, I was hit by a truck.”
“And I’m sure you’re fine. You’re talking, aren’t you? You’re always so dramatic about medical things. Remember when you thought you had appendicitis and it was just gas? Or when you were convinced you had pneumonia and it was a cold?”
I closed my eyes. The memory of those times stung differently now. She’d been dismissive then, too. Annoyed that I’d bothered her.
“This is different.”
“They all were different according to you. Look, I have to go. My wrap is getting cold. Call one of your friends. Or hire a babysitter. You make good money, don’t you? Problem solved.”
The line went dead. I stared at my cracked phone screen, my mother’s contact photo smiling back at me. It was from last Christmas.
She was holding Emma, her first grandchild, looking proud for the camera. I’d thought things would be different once Emma was born. That maybe becoming a grandmother would soften her. I was wrong.
The paramedic touched my arm gently. “Do you have someone else you can call?”
I scrolled through my contacts with trembling fingers. My best friend, Alicia, was in Seattle for a conference. Marcus’s parents were in Arizona. My neighbor, Mrs. Chen, couldn’t handle a newborn for more than an hour.
Then I found it. A business card I’d saved in my phone six months ago when I was pregnant and researching childcare options. Elite Newborn Care, 24/7 Emergency Services.
With the paramedic’s help, I called them. A calm voice answered immediately. “Elite Newborn Care, this is Monica.”
“I need help.” The words tumbled out. “I’m in an ambulance. Car accident. My 6-week-old daughter is at home with an elderly neighbor who can’t care for her long-term. I need someone now. Someone who can handle an exclusively breastfed baby. Someone who can stay as long as necessary.”
“We can have someone to you within 45 minutes. Where’s the baby now?”
I gave her Mrs. Chen’s address. Monica asked calm, professional questions. Did Emma have any medical conditions? Were there supplies at the house? What was my hospital destination?
“Our specialist, Claudia, will be there in 40 minutes,” Monica said. “She’s a registered nurse with 15 years of newborn care experience. She’ll coordinate with the hospital for pumped milk if you’re able, or will provide formula if needed. Don’t worry about anything. We’ve got your daughter.”
“How much will this cost?”
“Our emergency rate is $75 per hour with a 4-hour minimum. But right now, you need to focus on getting medical help. We’ll handle the rest.”
I almost cried. Someone was actually helping me. No judgment. No guilt. Just help.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“You’re welcome, Mama. We’ll take care of her like she’s our own.”
The ER was chaos. Doctors, nurses, machines beeping, bright lights that made my head throb worse. They did a CT scan of my brain, X-rays of my chest and shoulder.
The pain medication made everything fuzzy, but one thought stayed crystal clear. My mother had refused to help her own granddaughter. While they were stitching a gash on my forehead, my phone rang. It was Marcus.