PART 11
I took Phedra to the hospital.
She was admitted that evening.
Severe dehydration.
Malnutrition.
Anemia.
Untreated pain.
A weakened immune system.
The doctor spoke carefully.
Her cancer had progressed.
But treatment was still possible.
Not easy.
Not guaranteed.
Possible.
That word nearly broke me.
Possible.
All those months.
All that money.
And they had reduced her medical care to two visits.
I sat beside her hospital bed.
She looked smaller under the white blanket.
I held her hand.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She cried silently.
“I tried.”
“What happened?”
“Your mother took my phone after my diagnosis.”
“She said she would tell you.”
“She didn’t?”
Phedra shook her head.
“She said if I worried you, you would lose your job.”
“Then she started sitting beside me during calls.”
“When I asked to turn on video, she said the internet was bad.”
“She told me to say I was fine.”
“Why did you?”
She closed her eyes.
“Because she said you were already exhausted.”
“And because I was ashamed.”
“Of what?”
“Being sick.”
I squeezed her hand.
“You never needed to be ashamed.”
“I know that now.”
PART 12
The next morning, I called a lawyer.
Her name was Renee Foster.
She came recommended by one of my coworkers.
I told her everything.
The transfers.
The house.
The account in Selina’s name.
Godfrey’s shop.
Phedra’s treatment.
The million-dollar lie.
Renee listened.
Then said.
“First.”
“Do not transfer anyone money.”
“I won’t.”
“Second.”
“Do you have records of what you sent?”
“Yes.”
“Bank transfers going back four years.”
“Good.”
“Do you have messages explaining what the money was for?”
“Yes.”
“Some.”
“Finish the house.”
“Take care of Phedra.”
“Save the rest.”
Renee paused.
“That helps.”
Then she asked.
“Do they know you have a lawyer?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Let them talk.”
I understood exactly what she meant.
