Mom didn’t cry. Somehow, that hurt more.
“What about the kids?” I asked.
He looked at me like I was being unreasonable.
“You’re adults now. You’ll figure it out.”
Then he packed a bag. No hugs. No promises. No plan. The door shut, and something inside our home closed forever.
After that, he disappeared.
No calls. No birthdays. No money.
No texts asking about treatment.
Nothing.
Mom faded slowly. Her voice softened. Her steps grew weaker. I slept in a chair beside her hospital bed while Daniel stayed home with the kids. One night, she reached for my hand.
“Promise me something,” she whispered.
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