Ten years of saving, of denying myself dinners out, vacations, and new clothes, all so I could have a secure roof over my head.

My phone vibrated again, the screen illuminating my dusty work boots.

It was my father.

“Clara, have you spoken to your sister today? Your mother says she had a bad spell this afternoon.”

I rubbed my face with both hands, the smell of copper wire still lingering on my skin.

“I spoke to her, Dad,” I typed back. “She’s dealing with it.”

“We need to help her, honey,” he replied. “We’re all she has.”

The blindness of my parents was a wall I had been hitting for a decade.

They had mortgaged their own small bungalow in Parma to pay for her first round of “treatments.”

They believed every cough, every sigh, and every dramatic pause.

I stood up, walked to my small kitchen, and poured a glass of tap water.

My phone rang, the screen showing Megan’s contact name.

I let it ring three times before I answered.

“Did you get my text?” she asked, her voice clean and sharp, entirely devoid of the breathy weakness she used with our parents.