He pointed to his chest.
“I haven’t slept a full night since 2019. I lost my fiancée because I couldn’t leave the house for date nights. I got fired from the plant because I had to rush home when Mom fell. I stayed so she wouldn’t die alone in a state facility.”
He stepped closer.
“Money doesn’t clean adult diapers, Mike. Money doesn’t tolerate the insults when Dementia turns her mean. Money doesn’t hold a terrified woman’s hand at 3:00 AM when she’s hallucinating.”
“Sell the house. Keep the money. I’ve already paid my share. I paid with my life.”
He walked past me and collapsed onto the couch—the first real sleep he’d had in years.
I stood alone in the kitchen. I looked at my Apple Watch. My designer shoes. It all felt like garbage.
I was the investor. He was the son.
I paid for the prescription. He crushed the pills and coaxed her to take them.
I paid for the casket. He held her hand until her heart stopped beating.
