I stood in front of him.
“Answer me.”
He looked at Emily.
Then back at me.
“Yes.”
The word barely came out.
I felt my knees weaken.
I grabbed the back of a chair.
“What do you mean, yes?”
“She needs treatment.”
“What treatment?”
He reached for a folder on the bedside table.
I opened it.
Medical reports.
Prescriptions.
Insurance letters.
Hospital bills.
I stared at the pages.
The dates went back almost a year.
A year.
My daughter had been receiving medical care for almost a year.
And I hadn’t known.
I looked at Ben.
“You hid this from me?”
He started crying.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
He looked away.
“When I had everything under control.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Everything under control?”
I pointed toward the folder.
“You’ve been working every night. You’ve missed our anniversary. You’ve missed her birthday. You barely come home.”
