John feigned empathy as he placed Wendy in the wheelchair. “How did you arrange the money?” he asked.

“I didn’t want to trouble you, son. I sold the house.”

John froze. “You sold the house? For a failed surgery? YOU’RE SELFISH! You didn’t even think of me! That house was mine too! I was waiting for—”

He stopped, but Wendy understood. He cared more about his inheritance than her well-being.

“You know what? I have an urgent call,” John muttered, walking away as Wendy quietly sobbed near the parking lot.

A year passed with no contact. One morning, John heard a car outside and saw Wendy—standing.

“Mom, how—?”

“I love every moment now,” she smiled.

John invited her in, unsure how to react. Wendy broke the ice. “Remember when you left me alone? Joanne and Evan took me in. Evan even found better doctors and paid for my surgery. Now, I can run.”

John scowled. “If Evan’s so great, why are you here?”

Another car arrived. Evan entered.

“You can’t just barge in!” John snapped.

“But I can enter my house,” Evan replied.

John was six months behind on rent. Wendy handed him an eviction notice. “You have 15 days.”

Rock bottom had finally come.