That morning, I had been sitting beside Lisa’s hospital bed, smoothing her dark hair over one shoulder. Even in a coma, she was still my girl, the one who hated having tangles in her hair. Still nineteen. Still mine.

Dr. Evans stood in the doorway with a folder pressed against his chest.

“Kirsten,” he said, “we need to talk about the neuro-rehab program.”

“I paid what I could yesterday, Dr. Evans. I can bring more on Monday.”

“The deposit is due next Friday. Without it, they will release her spot.”

I gripped Lisa’s hand. “Then hold it until Friday. Please.”

“I can’t.”

“You mean billing won’t bother trying.”

His expression softened. “If the deposit isn’t paid, we can continue basic support until a long-term care transfer is arranged.”

“Basic support,” I repeated. “That’s what people say when they want mothers to stop fighting for their children.”

“It’s not giving up.”

He looked at Lisa, then back at me. “Do what you can, Kirsten. That program is her best chance.”

By noon, I was back in Adrian’s cold mansion kitchen.

Adrian sat in his wheelchair, glaring at oatmeal.

The first week I worked for him, he told me not to call him sir because he was “twenty, not a retired judge.”

I told him he glared like one.

That made him laugh for the first time.

Most people treated him as if the wheelchair had swallowed his voice. They talked over him, around him, or at him in slow, cautious tones that made his jaw tighten.

I pushed the bowl closer. “Eat.”

“It tastes like wet cardboard, Kirsten.”

“I’ll add honey tomorrow.”