The memory of Richard’s cruel words still stung. Even now, I’d internalized so much of his criticism over the years, believing that my grief was excessive, that my love for Blaine was somehow pathetic.
“What about you?” I asked, needing to shift focus away from my own pain. “What happened after he told you I was gone?”
Blaine stared down at his coffee cup, his shoulders sagging with the weight of memory.
“I believed him completely. Why wouldn’t I? He was our son. He showed me what looked like medical bills from your cancer treatment, receipts for prescriptions I’d never heard of, even a death certificate that looked official.”
“He forged all of that. Must have or paid someone to do it.”
“The paperwork was convincing enough that I never questioned it.” Blaine’s voice was hollow. “He said you’d specifically requested that I not be told about the diagnosis because you didn’t want me to see you suffer, that you’d spent your last months in a hospice facility being cared for by professionals.”Read Wellness Tips
