“Mom always told me you were busy building a better future for us,” Annie whispered, leaning against her father’s arm.
“She never once said a bad word about you, even when we had nothing.”
Victor squeezed his eyes shut, the weight of those words cutting deeper than any accusation.
He had foolishly believed the poison his mother had fed him, never asking why his wife would leave without a single conversation.
When they reached the apartment complex, a tired-looking neighbor stepped out of the hallway and glared at Victor.
“Are you the father?” she asked, her voice full of judgment.
“You finally decided to show your face after all this time?”
“Where is Catherine?” Victor demanded, ignoring the woman’s hostility.
“She collapsed while she was working at the restaurant and they took her to the Metropolitan General Hospital,” the neighbor replied coldly.
Annie started crying again, her small body shaking, and Victor asked nothing else.
He drove like a man possessed, ignoring every traffic light as he sped toward the hospital.
When he burst into the sterile, fluorescent-lit ward, he found Catherine sitting in a wheelchair, ghostly pale and terribly thin.
A doctor was adjusting a blanket over her shoulders, his expression grave.
Victor stopped in place, crushed by guilt, shame, and overwhelming love.
“Mom!” Annie shouted, running toward her mother.
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