But when my dad suffered a brain hemorrhage and was hospitalized, the usually proactive Cynthia fell silent.
I tentatively suggested she ask Eric for help in reviewing the scans, but she quickly grew impatient.
"Liam, aren't you making things difficult? Eric is a massage therapist; he can't possibly look at brain scans!"
"Cynthia, didn't you say Eric was doing well at the hospital? Can't he help find someone who can?" I nearly begged her, thinking of my father's condition.
"Ugh, are you annoying me? Eric hasn't graduated yet; he wouldn't dare ask those big-shot doctors for favors. Just take a leave and go home to find a doctor there!" Cynthia's tone was icy, her refusal unwavering.
I turned over in frustration.
She claimed Eric wasn't a cardiologist, so he wouldn't help with my dad's scans.
But he wasn't a dermatologist either—why could Cynthia send him intimate photos?
Deep down, I already knew the answer; I just didn't want to face it.
When all possibilities are ruled out, the remaining possibility, no matter how cruel, is the truth.
I sighed heavily, feeling a wave of despair wash over me.
