On the day of the surgery, Mom clung to him, sobbing uncontrollably, torn between overwhelming gratitude and the weight of guilt.
Even the other patients in the ward couldn’t help but praise us, saying we were the most loving and united family they had ever seen.
But that same family, once admired by all, once held together by love, was torn apart by Mom’s own hands.
I simply couldn’t make sense of it.
We had never even argued, not once.
During her stay in the hospital, she had been deeply moved by everything we did for her.
She even said, more than once, that our home held everything she ever treasured in life.
Then why did she end up killing the very people she loved most?
That question burned through my chest like wildfire, spreading pain with every breath.
I got up and began searching the house, desperate for any clue, anything at all, that might explain what went wrong.
On Mom’s bedside table, I spotted Dad’s hangover pills, the ones he always kept on hand after those exhausting business dinners.
On Dad’s bedside lay a well-worn guidebook on post-kidney transplant care, filled with his careful notes and highlights.