Back then, Carter hadn't given up his seat. He'd insisted on coming home because he felt unwell. Justin decided he was throwing a tantrum. To "teach him a lesson," he dumped our sick son at the school, leaving him in the freezing cold five miles away for the entire night.
By the time I found him, sobbing and hysterical, he was unconscious with a high fever.
I glanced at the paper on the nightstand—Carter's diagnosis report. Fortunately, this time, we were early.
In this life, love was irrelevant. As long as Justin provided a bone marrow match for our son, I would endure anything.
Darkness had settled when Justin finally returned with Brooklyn and Tommy.
He walked in carrying bags of gifts, trailing the rich scent of spicy hotpot. It clashed violently with the sterile smell of rubbing alcohol in our room.
Justin caught my eye and looked away. "It was too cold today," he muttered, "so I took Brooklyn and Tommy out for a quick meal."
He paused. "You know how it is. She's been raising the boy alone for years. It hasn't been easy. And Tommy isn't like Carter—he's frail. He hasn't eaten well since he was a baby..."
I remained silent.