“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.”
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