Emma didn’t argue. She didn’t cry. She just smiled—a small, careful smile—and stood up.
“I’m proud of you,” she said softly. Then she left.
She didn’t answer my calls after that. Three months passed. I told myself she was just hurt. That she’d come around. People always do.
Then work brought me back to our hometown for the first time in years.
On impulse, I decided to visit her. No warning. No call. I even rehearsed an apology on the drive over—something polished, something that would make things right without forcing me to sit in the discomfort too long.
The address she’d given me years ago no longer existed.
After some asking around, I found her building on the edge of town. It used to be a motel. Now it was long-term rentals—peeling paint, flickering lights, the kind of place you don’t notice unless you’re looking for it.
I knocked.
No answer.
The door was unlocked.
I walked in and went numb.
The room was small and bare. A single mattress on the floor. A folding chair. An oxygen machine humming softly in the corner. Medical bills stacked neatly on a crate that doubled as a table.
And on the bed—so thin I barely recognized her—was my sister.
She was pale. Her hair was gone. Tubes traced her arms like fragile lines on a map. Her eyes opened slowly when she heard me gasp.
