Then one morning, everything changed.
My phone rang.
It was my sister.
Her voice cracked as soon as she spoke.
“Please… I need to see you.”
Against every instinct, I agreed.
When I entered her small apartment, something in the air felt heavy—like grief hanging from the ceiling. Then I saw the pill bottles—lined in neat rows beside the bed—and on the bed… a man I barely recognized.
My husband.
The strong, confident man I once knew was pale, thin, and ghostly. His eyes met mine, and all at once I saw every ounce of guilt he had carried these past years.
My sister stood beside me, hands trembling.
“He’s terminally ill,” she whispered. “It started two years ago. We’ve been drowning in guilt ever since the day you left. We know how hard life became for you. We know we abandoned you when you needed us most. We saved everything we could… for your son. For his future.”
She handed me a bank card. Tears filled her eyes.
“We’re not buying your forgiveness,” she said softly. “We just want you to have the life you deserved.”
There were no excuses, no defensiveness—only raw remorse.
