"Keenan died believing in you," I whispered, my words barely audible. "And you weren't there."
Keenan was only five, his body so fragile that he'd been on medication for as long as I could remember. He spent more time in hospitals than playgrounds, his childhood stolen by illness. And yet, Gilbert—his own father—barely acknowledged his condition. He wasn’t just indifferent; he genuinely believed our son was pretending to be sick, just like the outsiders whispered. To him, I was the villain, manipulating the situation to get his attention. In his eyes, I was always scheming.
Gilbert was the golden child—handsome, from a prominent family, a star student. His charm captivated everyone and it seemed there wasn't a soul who didn't like him. Including me. I fell for him hard, silently carrying a torch for three years in high school. Then in college, I gathered the courage to pursue him, confessing my feelings not once, not twice, but 105 times. And 105 times, he rejected me.