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The time, the health, and the sanity that the caregiver sacrificed has a price tag no piece of real estate can ever match.
PART 2
By sunrise, I had already signed away the house.
By breakfast, my brother slid the folder back across the kitchen table like it was a greasy coupon I’d handed him by mistake.
“I don’t want your guilt, Michael,” he said.
His voice was flat.
Too flat.
“I want my life back. Can your lawyer do that?”
The folder stopped against my wrist.
Inside it was everything I had done in a panic after reading his notebook.
The house.
The trust.
The coverage for his bills.
Ten years of support.
All the things that had felt enormous when I was sitting in that law office with a pen in my hand and my chest full of shame.
Now it looked thin.
Paper always does when you stack it against four years of someone’s life.
“I’m not trying to buy forgiveness,” I said.
Dave let out a laugh so small it barely qualified as sound.
“That’s exactly what you’re trying to do.”
He stood at the sink in the same wrinkled funeral clothes from the day before.
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