Work carried on as usual, and Harriet continued to manage her father’s medicine, though she knew in her heart it wasn’t truly helping. It dulled the pain for a short while, but never enough. The cost weighed on her, and so did the sight of him wasting away.
One afternoon, she stepped into his room and found him seated at the edge of the bed, staring out the window. When he finally turned toward her, Harriet caught the dullness in his eyes—eyes that once held so much life.
“I brought you your medicine,” she said softly, setting the small packet in her hand.
But he shook his head, his voice weak yet firm. “Stop wasting your money on me.”
Her chest tightened. He looked older than his years, worn down by suffering. Harriet placed the medicine on the small table beside him, refusing to let
