“Stop throwing money at doctors,” he said once, eyes never leaving his phone. “You’re fine! You just like attention.”
I smiled then. Like a good wife.
That night, the hospital ballroom was washed in white light. Glass chandeliers. Ivory tablecloths. A banner across the stage read:
**FOR THE CHILDREN. FOR THE FUTURE.**
Nana squeezed my hand. “Mommy, why are there so many sad kids here?”
“Because they’re brave,” I said. My head throbbed. My vision swam. “Just like you.”
She beamed.
Then she froze.
Her fingers dug into my palm.
“Mommy,” she whispered. “Daddy’s here.”
My stomach dropped.
He told me he had meetings. He told Nana he would call later. He said he was too busy saving the world.
I followed her gaze.
Gusion stood on stage, tall and immaculate in a tailored suit, a microphone in his hand. The crowd applauded as he spoke about compassion. About family. About hope.
Hope.
He talked about children fighting for their lives. About standing by the people you love. About choosing courage when things get hard.
Each word landed like a slap.
Then he smiled.
The smile I hadn’t seen in years.