The house went silent in the worst way the kind that makes you hear your own breathing.
Back in Elizabeth’s room, she didn’t ask where her son went. She didn’t cry. She stared past me at the dark window and let out an exhausted sigh.
“He is gone, daughter,” she whispered. I tried to sound calm. “He’s working. For your care. Don’t worry. I’m here.”
Elizabeth looked at me like she could see straight through my faith. “You poor thing,” she said, voice paper-thin. “Consider him gone for good.”
Three months later, I understood exactly what she meant. The money he left barely covered basics. Every day became a loop: office, pharmacy runs, caregiving, and the kind of tired that lives in your bones.
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