Half his body was paralyzed. His face carried the unmistakable damage of a stroke.
His hair had turned completely white. It was my father, George. For six months, I had been sending my sister, Rachel, thirty-five hundred dollars every month because she claimed Dad was living in an expensive private rehabilitation center.
Every week, she sent me photographs of him in gardens, therapy rooms, and dining areas.
Yet there he was. Living in a tiny room while my ex-wife collected bottles to buy his medicine.
I rushed inside. “Dad!” His eyes filled with tears. Then I turned toward Olivia.
“What did you do to him?” Her expression hardened. “You’re still throwing around accusations before bothering to ask questions.”
She opened a drawer and dropped several documents onto the table. The first was my father’s hospital discharge form.
It showed that a family representative had requested his release and refused further medical care.
At the bottom was one signature. Rachel Reed. My sister. “This can’t be real,” I whispered.
“Rachel sends me videos from the care home every week.” Olivia gave a bitter laugh.
“Then ask her why your father was abandoned at a public clinic without money, identification, or medication.”
