Their voices began overlapping, louder and sharper with every second.
“Enough,” my mother said, her voice thin but steady. “Don’t embarrass me in front of the doctor.”
That silenced them.
I kept my tone even. “We need to talk about this properly. Tomorrow. At the house. Six p.m.”
Jack scoffed. “And you think we’ll just agree to sell it?”
“I think,” I said, meeting his eyes, “that the sooner we figure this out, the sooner Mom gets what she needs.”
Silence followed, then one by one, they nodded.
That afternoon dragged on.
I sat in my car after leaving the hospital.
Of course they cared about the house. It was the only real asset left.
Our mother had no savings, no investments—just that home.
And suddenly, it all made sense.
My siblings weren’t just avoiding responsibility. They were protecting what they thought was theirs.
I exhaled and finally drove home.
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