my phone balanced on a blanket so I could keep track of medication times.

I stopped measuring days by weekdays and started measuring them by blood counts.

My mother complained when I canceled Sunday dinners.

Victoria said hospitals gave her anxiety.

Melissa came at first, then less, then mostly by text.

Angela, the neighbor who owed me nothing, showed up more than all of them put together.

When Caleb died, the silence from my family lasted long enough to feel intentional.

Then Victoria posted an Instagram story from the Grand Horizon Hotel ballroom.

White roses.

Crystal chandeliers.

A champagne tower.

Her engagement party in full swing.

My mother smiling near the cake.

My father raising a glass.

Melissa in the background, laughing.

The timestamp said the video had gone up while I was listening to Caleb’s eulogy.

Angela saw my face and asked what happened.

I showed her the screen.

She went very still, the way some people do when outrage hits them so hard it burns clean through words.

‘They didn’t come,’ I said.

Angela’s hand squeezed my arm.

‘Then shame on every one of them.’

I thought the cruelty had already reached its limit.

Then my phone buzzed.

We need to talk.

Bring the trust documents tomorrow.

It was from my mother.

I stared at the message until the letters blurred.

My son was still above ground, and she was asking for paperwork.

I wrote back that I was burying my child.

She replied within seconds.

Stop being dramatic, Destiny.

This is important for the whole family.

The whole family.

I turned off my phone and knelt beside the casket with Caleb’s favorite action figure in my hand.

The toy had chipped paint and one loose arm because it had survived every hospital stay, every waiting room, every angry little squeeze Caleb gave it before blood draws.

I placed it on the casket and made the only promise I had left to make.

‘I will protect what’s yours.’

The next morning, I drove through drizzle to my parents’ house in Oakwood Heights with that promise repeating in my head like a heartbeat.

Their colonial sat exactly as it always had, white shutters, trimmed hedges, polished brass knocker, the kind of house people point to when they want to talk about stability.

Melissa’s silver BMW was already in the driveway.

My father opened the door before I knocked.

‘Destiny.

Come in.

We’ve been waiting.’

The living room had been arranged with the seriousness of a closing.

Victoria sat upright on the cream sofa, her engagement ring sparkling against a cashmere sleeve.

Melissa perched beside her, suddenly fascinated by her manicure.

My mother stood by the mantel with a look of rehearsed concern and one hand resting on a framed family photo where Caleb was seven and missing his front tooth.

No one said his name.

My father gestured toward the coffee table.

A folder sat open beside a pen.

‘We need to reallocate the trust with Victoria as acting trustee.

Sign here and here, and we can make this easy.’

I didn’t sit.

‘Why would I do that?’

Victoria folded her hands.

‘Because you’re not in a position to manage this much money right now.’

My mother stepped in before I could answer.

‘You haven’t been sleeping.

You’ve been