I said yes before I even understood the question. I wired the first $5,000 that same night. Then another.
Then another. Every month became a ritual. Money out, guilt quieted, love proven.
I learned to live on the cheapest food I could stomach. When the furnace broke one winter, my husband and I slept in layers like we were camping inside our own life. We postponed children, told ourselves it was temporary, that we were being responsible.
I memorized the price of everything in the grocery store. I became fluent in sacrifice. And every time I asked—every time I tried to see her, to talk to a doctor, to get a real diagnosis—they gave me new rules like commandments.
“No visits. The specialist says stress triggers flare-ups.”
“She can’t do video calls; her eyes hurt.”
“Different hospital. Paperwork.
HIPAA.”
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