“Or is it that your so-called little brother had another episode, and you needed to personally help him change his underwear in our bedroom?”
My words dripped with sarcasm, and Claire’s face flushed, turning from pale to ashen.
Humiliated, she lashed out, slapping me hard across the face.
The sting burned instantly; she had struck with all her strength.
“I’m sorry, Ethan—I lost control.”
She looked at the swelling on my cheek with a flicker of guilt before lowering her hand.
Since Ryan returned from the U.S., Claire and I had only grown further apart.
At first, I had tried to accept him—her brother was my brother, I told myself.
So when she worried about Ryan’s condition, I was more concerned than anyone.
I searched everywhere for top psychiatrists—first in the South, then in the North, and when none in the country worked, I sought specialists in the United States.
Even during my business trips, I made time to visit doctors abroad.
And yet, when I returned home, I found Ryan lying in my bed, wearing my pajamas, with my wife in his arms.
And I was the fool left on the outside.
I wiped the blood-red mark at the corner of my mouth, fixing my eyes on the stunned Claire.