I looked down.
She was talking about herself.
About our marriage.
About the hundred dollars in the mud.
She continued.
“If you go after Melissa tonight, she will erase whatever remains.”
“You need proof.”
“Not fury.”
My father made a sound.
He pointed toward Hannah.
Then at me.
His eyes narrowed.
Almost demanding.
I understood.
Listen to her.
The irony nearly killed me.
I nodded.
“All right.”
Hannah looked surprised.
Maybe that was the first time in years I had listened.
We made a plan.
First, Dad needed real medical care.
I called a private physician I trusted.
Not Melissa.
Not the facility she claimed he lived in.
Dr. Samuel Reed arrived an hour later.
He examined Dad.
His expression became furious.
Dehydration.
Poor nutrition.
Untreated pressure sores.
Medication inconsistencies.
Missed physical therapy.
He said,
“Mr. Carter needs inpatient evaluation tonight.”
I called an ambulance.
Hannah immediately started packing Dad’s things.
There were almost none.
Two shirts.
Three pairs of socks.
A razor.
Notebook.
Medication.
That was my father’s life now.
I wanted to vomit.
When paramedics lifted him, Dad grabbed Hannah’s hand.
He would not release it.
She leaned close.
“I’m coming.”
He relaxed.
Then grabbed mine.
