And sometimes, that cost is looking exactly where you don’t want to.
Photos. Decorations. Candy bags.
Then I found one picture near the hallway.
In the background—
Blurry—
A faint golden glint near a woman’s neck.
I zoomed in.
A gold teardrop necklace.
Rachel.
My mouth went dry.
Because according to the “official story,” my sister hadn’t even been there.
My mother had said it so easily:
“She didn’t come. She’s not doing well. Don’t judge her.”
And I believed her.
I checked the videos.
Same thing.
At 3:14 PM, a woman passes through the back door.
Blurry face.
But the profile.
The hair.
And that same gold glint.
My sister had been there.
My sister lied.
Or someone lied for her.
Then I remembered something else.
Since Ethan woke up, my mother never asked:
“How is he feeling?”
“Is he in pain?”
“Does he need anything?”
She only asked one thing:
“What does he remember?”
That’s when I stopped waiting for answers.
And started watching.
A few days later, I arrived early at the hospital.
The hallway was quiet.
Ethan’s door was slightly open.
My mother was inside, holding his hand.
Her voice was low—but not low enough.
“My love… it was a mistake. You need to forget.”
My spine went cold.
I walked in.
“What was a mistake, Mom?”