4. The Slow Decline I Should Have Questioned
The electric screwdriver buzzed—every screw removed felt like another piece of my sanity coming loose.
I looked at Melissa and saw fear for the first time. Not sorrow—fear. She kept glancing at her phone, typing urgently.
I recalled the past months. My mother became weak, tired, foggy. Whenever I questioned it, Melissa always had a ready explanation.
“She’s older, Andrew.”
“She’s exhausted.”
“The doctor adjusted her prescription.”
What doctor?
I never met him.
Melissa handled every appointment.
Rosa had come to me once, hands trembling.
“Andrew… the pills aren’t good for your mother. On the days she skips them, she’s alert. She remembers. She talks. Something is wrong.”
And like a fool, I dismissed her.
“You’re not trained, Rosa. Stop worrying.”
Now the guilt pressed on my chest like a weight.
