Noah was only fourteen, but he had already spent much of his childhood in hospitals.
The medical bills never seemed to stop.
My mother worked double shifts as a nurse’s aide and somehow still found the strength to smile whenever Noah was afraid. But late at night, when she thought no one was watching, I would hear her crying in the kitchen.
One evening, another hospital bill arrived.
She stared at it silently before slipping it beneath a growing pile of unpaid statements.
That night, I sat at my laptop searching for any job I could find.
Dog walking.
Tutoring.
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