Rhys followed right behind her.
Dad let out a heavy sigh, pushed himself up from the table, and walked away.
Just like that, our New Year's Eve dinner fell apart.
Back in my room, the weight on my chest was suffocating.
Vivian wasn't wrong about one thing—my mother did leave early.
I was eight when a car accident left her in a vegetative state.
Dad was always busy with work, and he didn't trust outside caregivers. Eventually, he reached out to an old classmate who'd trained as a nurse—Christine.
She took care of Mom with real dedication. Every time I visited the hospital, Mom was clean and comfortable. She never once developed bedsores.
Three years later, Mom passed away.
Before the end, Dad told me that Mom had used her premarital assets to buy me a villa.
"This is the dowry your mother left you," he said, his eyes red. "You were the one she couldn't let go of."
After Mom died, Dad fell seriously ill. Once again, it was Christine who stayed by his side and nursed him through it.
Eventually, they got married.
Christine brought a son with her—Rhys Dickerson, two years older than me.