Just him.
His choices.
And his consequences.
When the doctor finally came out, his face was serious.
“Your mother had a stroke,” he said. “She’s alive, but recovery may be difficult. She’ll need support, ongoing care, therapy, medication.”
Terrence nodded slowly, like each word was another bill landing on his back.
And that was only the beginning.
Once Ivonne came home, everything changed.
Terrence became her caretaker.
Not by choice.
By necessity.
He had to help her to the bathroom. Help her sit up. Help her eat when her hands shook too much.
The same man who once mocked Nyla’s tears was now changing adult diapers and sleeping in broken pieces.
And the bills—those piled up fast.
Medication. Doctor visits. Therapy sessions. Transport. Extra groceries.
Every week brought another payment.
Terrence started opening envelopes with dread. He started checking his account balance like a man staring at bad news.
And the family members who used to crowd that house when there was gossip and celebration?
They vanished.
Darnell came less and less. Kesha stopped checking in.
Church people sent one text and disappeared.
Because when suffering enters the room, fake support runs for the door.
Terrence began spiraling.
Not in some dramatic, noisy way.
