The next morning I woke up before the sun had fully risen. My eyes felt heavy from another night of broken sleep, but my mind was sharp. I could not wait any longer. I needed answers that I could not find inside this house. I needed to speak to the doctor who had treated David for ten years. The man who had signed every medical report. The man who had told me, year after year, that my husband’s condition was permanent.
I dressed quickly in a simple blouse and jeans. I told the housekeeper I was going out for some fresh air and shopping. No one questioned me. I drove myself to the private clinic on the other side of the city where David had received most of his care. The building looked the same as I remembered it — clean, expensive, and quiet.
When I walked inside, the receptionist smile
