I turned to Gilbert, searching for even the slightest trace of disagreement with Lucy's absurd claim. But his lips were pressed tight, refusing to speak. Yet his silence, the look in his eyes, spoke volumes. He believed her.
And that was all I needed to know. A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips—sharp and cold, full of irony. How could he, the father of my son, believe such a vile lie?
"Keenan was born with heart and lung insufficiency," I began, my voice shaking not with weakness but with restrained fury. "Since he was a baby, he’s been more fragile than other children. Every cold turned into something worse and it always ended in pneumonia. You think I made that up? You think a child would pretend to suffer just to get your attention?"
I paused, the memories of countless nights sitting by Keenan’s hospital bed flooding back. How could Gilbert not remember?
"You never cared," I continued, my voice breaking. "I begged you to take him to specialists, but you thought it was a fuss over nothing. If you had just listened, if you hadn’t brushed me off again and again, he might still be here."