He pointed a shaking finger at me.
“You had weekends off. You had vacations in Europe. You went to happy hours. You had a life.”
He slammed his hand on his own chest.
“I haven’t slept a full night in four years. I lost my fiancée because I could never leave the house for a date. I quit my engineering career so Mom wouldn’t have to go to a state nursing home where they’d strap her down. You sent money to ‘fix problems,’ but money doesn’t clean up diarrhea at 3 AM, Michael. Money doesn’t endure the insults of a mind eaten by dementia. Money doesn’t hold her while she shakes in terror because she sees ghosts in the corner of the room.”
He leaned in, his voice quiet but shaking with years of suppressed rage.
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