The maintenance worker immediately approached me.
“Young lady, can you hear me?”
I nodded.
“Don’t try to stand up yet.”
He knelt beside me and took out his phone.
“I’m calling emergency services.”
I shook my head weakly.
“My mother…”
“What’s your mother’s number?”
I gave it to him.
He dialed and put the phone on speaker.
The first call rang several times.
Then a woman answered.
“Hello?”
“Ma’am, I’m calling from the community park near the south pavilion. Your daughter has been assaulted. She’s conscious, but she’s in pain. I’ve called for medical assistance.”
There was silence.
Then my mother’s voice changed.
“Where is she?”
“Beside the pavilion. Near the tennis courts.”
“Is she breathing?”
“Yes, but she’s having difficulty.”
“Stay with her. Do not let her move. I’m on my way.”
The call ended.
The maintenance worker looked at me.
“Your mother is coming.”
I closed my eyes.
For the first time since Brant had grabbed my backpack, I felt that someone might actually do something.
But I had no idea what was about to happen.
My mother arrived eleven minutes later.
I would remember those eleven minutes for a long time.
Not because of the pain.
Not because of Tyler’s phone.
But because I had never heard my mother sound frightened before.
When she appeared at the entrance to the pavilion, she wasn’t wearing her usual expression.
Her hair was slightly disheveled, and she had abandoned the business meeting she had been attending halfway through.
She ran toward me.
“Sweetheart!”
She dropped to her knees beside the maintenance worker.
Her hands hovered over my shoulders, as though she was afraid that touching me might make something worse.
“Look at me.”
I opened my eyes.
“I’m here,” I whispered.
She swallowed.
“I know. I’m here too.”
A paramedic arrived shortly afterward.
They examined me, checked my breathing, and carefully helped me onto a stretcher.
My mother stayed beside me throughout the process.
As they wheeled me toward the ambulance, I noticed something.
The people who had previously walked away were now standing at a distance, watching.
One of the mothers from the playground had returned.
She was holding her toddler.
Our eyes met.
She immediately looked down.
I wondered whether she remembered seeing me on the ground.
I wondered whether she had told herself that the boys were only joking.
I wondered how many people had decided that remaining silent was easier than helping someone.
My mother noticed me looking.
“Don’t worry about them,” she said.
I turned toward her.
“Did they see?”
“Who?”
“The people in the park.”
She looked over her shoulder.
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t anyone help?”
My mother didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she took my hand.
“That’s something we’re going to find out.”
At the hospital, the doctors examined my injuries and kept me under observation.
I had bruising around my wrists and shoulders, several scrapes, and significant abdominal pain from the impact.
The medical team wanted to make sure there was no internal injury.
My mother sat beside the bed, still wearing the same clothes she had worn when she left her meeting.
She had not touched her coffee.
She had not checked her work messages.
She had not made a single phone call about the distribution network she had come here to inspect.
She simply sat beside me.
After the examination, a nurse brought her a chair closer to my bed.
“Your daughter should rest,” she said gently.
My mother nodded.
When the nurse left, I looked at her.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t make a big deal out of this.”
She stared at me.
I immediately regretted saying it.
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Because I don’t want everyone knowing who I am.”
My mother leaned forward.
“Sweetheart, someone hurt you. That is already a big deal.”
“I know, but…”
I stopped.
She waited.
I finally said what had been bothering me.
“I didn’t want to be your daughter here.”
Her expression softened.
“I wanted people to like me because of me. Not because of your company. Not because of your position.”
My mother looked down at our joined hands.
“I understand.”
“I just wanted a normal school year.”
For a moment, she didn’t speak.
Then she brushed a strand of hair away from my forehead.
“You deserve that. More than anyone.”
I swallowed.
“Can we just report what happened and leave it there?”
My mother looked toward the window.
“I won’t turn this into a publicity stunt. I promise.”
She paused.
“But I also won’t pretend it didn’t happen.”
At 5:42 p.m., a police officer arrived at the hospital.
He introduced himself as Officer Daniel Harris.
He carried a small notebook and asked whether I felt comfortable describing what had happened.
My mother remained beside me.
