As for Jean, she'd treated me even better than she treated Brad, her own flesh and blood.
One night I'd been hit with acute appendicitis. The pain was so severe I couldn't stand. Brad was away on a business trip, and it was Jean—in the dead of winter, through howling wind and snow—who hoisted my unconscious body onto her back and ran for miles to get me to the hospital.
That night, the cold nearly cost her both legs.
But she was so worried I'd blame myself that she gritted her teeth and never said a word.
It wasn't until Brad came home and saw that both her legs had turned black that he rushed her to the emergency room.
Even the doctor was shaken, saying she'd been gambling with her own life.
Jean had only smiled. "As long as Jill is okay, nothing else matters."
It was precisely because I'd felt their love so deeply, so genuinely, that I couldn't make sense of any of this.
What kind of woman could possibly make Brad—a man who loved me that much—and Jean—a woman who treated me like her own—betray me at the same time?
"Let's go. We're heading to the airport right now to see what the hell is going on."
My father shot to his feet, snatched his car keys off the table, and headed for the door.