Maybe he was right. I’d spent years believing he was anyway.
It wasn’t just punishment. It wasmethod.Psychological warfare dressed up as parenting. He thought breaking me would build something better. And the worst part? It worked. I got quieter. I stopped waiting for anyone to come get me, because no one ever did.
Remy had already been adopted by then. Different family. Better one. The kind that showed up for parent-teacher conferences and packed lunches that didn’t smell like cheap whiskey. He got out before Gerard came into the picture. He didn’t see what the house became.
And in a fucked-up way, I was glad it was me. Glad it wasn’t Remy who had to hear the lock click behind him while he sat in that closet counting his own breath and wondering how long it would take before he forgot what sunlight looked like. Glad it wasn’t Remy who ran until his legs gave out, throwing up in the bushes because Gerard had said, “Real mendon’t stop when they’re tired, only when they’re done.”
I’d taken the short end of the stick, and I’d held onto it like a damn dog.
I still did, because at least that way, someone else didn’t have to.
And maybe that’s why I showed up now. Why I kept showing up. For people who didn’t deserve it. For people who forgot me. For people who pushed me away and spat in my face while I was still holding the door open.
Because if I didn’t—if I didn’t stay, even when it was thankless—what the hell had all that been for?
CHAPTER 24
VALENTINA
Iwas starting to hate hospitals.
They were the kind of place where life and death got measured out in charts and insurance codes; where survival wasn’t just about medicine but about whether or not you could afford the cure.
Dr. Rojas sat across from me and Isabel in an office that felt cold. He was talking, but I was already bracing for the hit. I knew how this worked. A long-winded explanation followed by an apology, followed by the real punchline:money.
“The grant was denied,” he said, and there it was. The gut-punch. The answer we already knew was coming. “I’m sorry.”
Isabel stiffened beside me. “So that’s it?” she asked. “She doesn’t qualify because we’re not rich? Because we don’t have the right connections?”
Dr. Rojas sighed. He seemed tired of this—tired of dealing with people who couldn’t accept the price of treatments. Insurance was a scam. Even he knew it. “I understand this is frustrating?—”
“No,” Isabel cut in, shaking her head. “It’s notfrustrating. It’s fucking disgusting. You parade these treatments around likemiracles, but when real people need them, suddenly, it’s just about money.”
Dr. Rojas nodded. “It’s a difficult topic.”
Difficult. Right. That was what we were callinglife-or-deaththese days.
“What other options do we have?”
He hesitated. “There’s private financing. Or ...” A pause. “Filing for medical bankruptcy.”
Bankruptcy. The kind of thing that would swallow Isa whole, wreck whatever was left of Mama’s security. The kind of thing Isabel would fight tooth and nail against, because it meant admitting defeat.
But none of it mattered. Notreally.
Because I could cover the bills.
I had a few more papers to sign, a few final steps before Max released the money, but once that was done? I could write the check. I could pay for everything.
I just couldn’t tell them.
Because if they knew,they’d know.
They’d ask how, they’d ask why, and no matter how well I lied, Isabel would dig until she found the truth: that I’d sold myself for it.
So I’d have to lie. I’d have to make them believe the grant had come through after all. That some miracle had swooped in at the last second.
I could do that. I was good at lying.
