PART 2
“I have an announcement,” I said, keeping my voice level despite the fury still coiled tight in my chest. “The metalworking shop’s shutdown wasn’t just a scheduling gap. It was because of a workplace accident review. Six months ago, a crane malfunction nearly took my arm off. I’ve spent the past several months in a legal settlement process with the shop’s insurance company.”
Loretta’s expression shifted instantly, the outrage from moments earlier dissolving into something considerably more attentive.
“Yesterday,” I continued, “the settlement finalized. One point two million dollars.”
The silence that followed lasted exactly as long as it took Loretta and Colette to process the number.
“Rourke,” Loretta said, her voice suddenly warm in a way that made my skin crawl, “that’s wonderful news. We should celebrate. I’ll start dinner properly this time—”
“With what money, Mom? You’ve spent the last four years demonstrating exactly how you handle money I send for this family. I’d like to see how you handle this.”
Colette stepped forward, any pretense of concern for Adeline entirely forgotten. “Does this mean we could finally finish the guest bathroom? And maybe look at getting Mom’s car serviced—”
“Two visits,” I said quietly. “In eleven months. That’s how much of my previous hundred thousand dollars went toward my wife’s actual cancer treatment, while you two built yourselves a life off the rest of it.”
I held up my phone, screen angled so they could both see it clearly. “I’ve been recording since I walked through that door. Every word about the money, the necklace, the two doctor’s visits. Every single thing either of you has said in the past ten minutes.”
Loretta’s face went pale. “You can’t record us without permission.”
“Actually, I can. One-party consent state. I checked, from the shop, the moment I bought that plane ticket, because some part of me already suspected something was wrong.”
PART 3
I got Adeline to the hospital that same evening, Loretta and Colette’s protests fading into background noise as I focused entirely on getting my wife into an actual treatment room rather than the storage shed she’d apparently been sleeping in for weeks.
The oncologist, a careful, direct woman named Dr. Fareed, reviewed what remained of Adeline’s treatment records and delivered news that landed like another physical blow: Adeline’s cancer, originally caught at a stage with a genuinely strong prognosis, had progressed significantly during the months of interrupted, inadequate care.
“With consistent treatment starting now,” Dr. Fareed said, “I believe we still have a real chance at meaningful remission. But I won’t minimize how much harder this fight has become because of the gap in her care.”
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