At my veterinary clinic, we follow a simple rule: triage first. You assess the injury, measure the blood loss, and treat whatever threatens life before anything else.
My sister took that logic—and twisted it.
She decided my son’s ability to breathe mattered less than the aesthetic of her daughter’s birthday party.
My name is Diane Carter. I’m thirty-seven, and I live in Portland, Oregon, where the rain falls sideways and the evergreen trees seem stubbornly determined to outlive everything else.
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