Years passed. I became a doctor.
On graduation day, the auditorium buzzed with applause. Claire sat in the back row, hair pulled into a neat bun, her face glowing with quiet pride. When I crossed the stage and held my diploma, I felt invincible.
And in a moment of arrogance—born not of truth, but of pride—I turned to her and said words that would scar us both:
“See? I climbed the ladder. You took the easy road and became a nobody.”
The words were sharp. Cruel. Unforgivable.
Claire didn’t argue. She didn’t cry. She gave me a small, tired smile—and walked away.
For three months, there was silence. No calls. No messages. I told myself she was angry, that she needed time. I buried myself in work, pretending success excused everything.
But guilt never stayed quiet.
Eventually, I went home.
The town felt smaller than I remembered. The sidewalks were cracked, the air heavy with memory. My chest tightened as I approached the modest house where Claire had raised me.
I opened the door expecting her voice—maybe anger, maybe relief.
There was only silence.
The living room was tidy, lavender lingering faintly in the air. I called her name. Nothing. Then I walked into her bedroom—and froze.
Claire lay in bed, frail and pale. Tubes and machines surrounded her, oxygen humming softly. My knees buckled.
She was gravely ill.
A neighbor stepped in behind me. “She didn’t want to worry you,” she said gently. “She’s been sick for months. She kept saying you’d worked too hard to be distracted.”
