I was under anesthesia when it wore off too early. I couldn’t open my eyes, but I heard my son’s wife tell the surgeon: “If something goes wrong, don’t call her lawyer. Call me first.”

The truth beneath the perfume and polished smiles.

I had built that hospital wing.

Not Vanessa.

Not Daniel.

Me.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to rip the tubes out and sit upright and watch the fear hit their faces.

But the drugs still owned my body.

So I listened.

Vanessa continued speaking casually, like a queen dividing inheritance over a corpse.

Daniel finally muttered weakly, “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“Maybe,” she hissed, “you should remember who made you relevant. Without your mother’s name, you’re just a man in expensive shoes with no spine.”

Silence.