My niece stood beside him, arms crossed, sneering. She happily poured gasoline on the fire.
"Exactly. Joshua is on a different level now. You clinging to him like this is shameless. If people find out, how bad will that look? Strangers might think the Lambert family treated you poorly! Have some dignity, will you?"
I looked at my son's indifferent face.
That familiar, twisting pain in my chest returned.
But this time, it was violent.
A sledgehammer to the ribs.
I clenched my jaw, refusing to collapse in front of them.
Summoning the last dregs of my strength, I raised my head and looked my son in the eye.
In that look, I poured a lifetime of bitterness.
Confusion.
Love.
And finally… total, despairing resignation.
I didn't say a word.
I didn't look at anyone else.
I turned around silently and began the long walk back the way I came.
Behind me, the glass skyscraper loomed like a massive, cold tombstone.
It buried my hope.
It buried my son.
I don't remember how I made it back to the guesthouse.
I collapsed onto the bed, gasping for air, skin slick with cold sweat. The world tilted and went black.
The terrified guesthouse owner called an ambulance.