Except the next morning, I hear Liam’s car screech into the driveway. My son, mid-thirties, married, lives ten minutes away—but we don’t see each other often. “Is he here?” he asks, not even bothering to say hello. I hesitate. That’s all it takes. “Unbelievable,” Liam mutters, brushing past me like I’m the teenager in trouble.

He hasn’t spoken to James in over a decade. Not since the credit card mess. Not since the shouting matches that shook the walls. But there’s one thing Liam doesn’t know: James is sick. He didn’t say it directly, but I saw the pharmacy bag, the tremor in his hand when he reached for the kettle.