“Skyla, what have you done?!”
She reached for my hand.
And suddenly, I understood that allowing her to comfort me without confessing would only deepen my betrayal.
“Skyla, I’m not sick.”
She stared.
“What?”
“There’s no diagnosis. No treatment.”
For an instant, relief crossed her face.
“The doctors made a mistake?”
I shook my head.
“I made it up.”
She withdrew her hand.
“Made what up?”
“All of it. I wanted to know whether you’d stay if I couldn’t afford treatment.”
Her gaze dropped to the documents.
“You let me ask strangers how to keep you alive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I spent five days learning how not to leave you alone. And you spent those same five days deciding I’d abandoned you.”
I reached toward the recipe box.
Skyla pulled it away.
“Don’t.”
She gathered the papers, returned the old card, and closed the lid.
“Why would you do this to me?”
“My parents and friends kept saying you wanted my money.”
