“No, he’s your son.”
Just then, Ethan walked down the stairs. He looked exhausted, rubbing his temples, his shirt wrinkled. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders—or at least, he made sure everyone knew he did.
“How is she?” Ethan asked in a hushed tone, glancing at his mother with tragic eyes.
“Confused,” Claire whispered. “She forgot me again.”
Ethan sighed, a heavy, martyrdom sound. “I’m taking her to the specialist clinic today. Dr. Evans said we need to try a new cognitive therapy. It’s… expensive.”
Claire felt a knot of anxiety in her stomach. “How expensive?”
“Two thousand for the initial consult,” Ethan said, avoiding her eyes. “We’ll have to dip into the emergency fund again. I know we wanted to save for the roof repair, but… it’s Mom. She doesn’t have much time left.”
The guilt trip was subtle, practiced. She doesn’t have much time left. He had been saying that for three years.
“Okay,” Claire said, rubbing her aching back. “Do what you have to do. I’ll take Lily to get school supplies. We’ll be thrifty. Maybe the dollar store.”
Ethan walked over and kissed Claire’s forehead. His lips were dry. “You’re a saint, honey. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You hold this family together.”
