Three months passed. No calls. No messages. I told myself she needed space; I told myself she was strong. I was busy anyway—new city, new job, new life. It wasn’t until I came back for a conference that I decided to visit her. The door was unlocked. Inside, something felt wrong immediately.
The house was hollow. The furniture was gone. The walls were bare where photos used to hang. I followed a faint sound into the living room and found her lying on the floor. Pale. Shaking. Breathing as if every breath hurt. She looked impossibly small, like the strength I’d always known had been slowly drained out of her. I dropped to my knees, calling her name. Even then, she tried to smile. “I didn’t want you to worry,” she whispered.
At the hospital, the truth came out in pieces: a chronic illness and years of worsening symptoms. There were medication doses she couldn’t afford regularly and doctor visits she skipped just so she could keep sending me money—money I thought came from an inheritance. “There was no inheritance,” she admitted quietly. “Mom didn’t leave anything. I just wanted you to study freely. Without guilt.”
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