There were weeks when hunger became a familiar companion. Nights when I went to sleep with my stomach aching and my mind racing with regret and anger. Still, that bank card remained untouched in the bottom of a drawer. It felt poisoned, as if using it would mean accepting that I had truly been worth so little.

Years passed slowly, each one pressing heavier on my body. My joints stiffened. My back protested every movement. There were days when standing up felt like climbing a mountain with no summit in sight. My children visited when they could, leaving small amounts of cash and cheerful lies about how often they would return. I never told them how dizzy I felt, how often the room spun. They had their own lives, and I refused to become another weight on their shoulders.

Everything changed one afternoon when my body finally gave up its quiet resistance. I collapsed outside the door of my room, the world fading into a blur of noise and shadow. When I woke, I was in a hospital bed, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. A young doctor stood beside me, his expression serious but kind.