I laughed once. “Huge.”
“Don’t start,” she warned.
“What? Say the truth?”
“You’re being dramatic.”
Dramatic.
I pictured Ethan pale in his hospital bed, cracking jokes to keep adults calm.
Two months earlier, I’d sat across from my parents with paperwork spread out like a plea.
I’d done the research. Found the program. Created repayment plans.
My father leaned back and said the sentence that split something inside me.
“We’re not paying eighty-five thousand dollars for a maybe.”
A maybe.
As if my child were a risky investment.
“It’s not a maybe,” I’d said. “It’s a chance.”
“You should have thought about that before making choices,” he replied.
Like Ethan was a consequence.
Like my life, my divorce, my independence were mistakes they refused to subsidize.
My mother had added, “We’ve already helped you so much.”
Crumbs dressed up as generosity.
And now my sister was celebrating unlimited floral budgets.
“Ethan might not have two weeks,” I told her. “And you’re telling me there’s no limit for flowers.”
She grew careful. Distant. “Mom and Dad can spend their money however they want.”
That was the moment I stopped begging.
Three days later, Ethan was gone.
After that, everything blurred—condolences, paperwork, hollow phrases.
“I can’t imagine.”
“He’s in a better place.”
“You’re so strong.”
Strong.
As if there was an alternative.
My parents arrived after he’d already passed.
My mother’s first words weren’t apology.
They were, “Why didn’t you call sooner?”
“I called when he was alive,” I said.
