MY MOTHER ASKED WHAT MY ILLNESS HAD TO DO WITH THEIR VACATION AT MY HOUSE, SO I STOPPED ARGUING AND TOLD HER, “THEN COME”—AND WHEN SHE STEPPED OUTSIDE HER CAR, SHE COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT SHE SAW.

The weeks following the court ruling brought a strange, surreal quiet.

With their savings completely depleted by legal fees and their social standing reduced to ashes in suburban Phoenix, my parents were forced to sell their suburban split-level house and downsize into a cramped, rented two-bedroom townhouse across town. Gretchen had packed up her remaining designer clothes and moved out of state to live with an aunt in Chicago, completely cutting ties with everyone who reminded her of the scandal.

Drew and I had settled into a comfortable, easy rhythm. He dropped by the desert compound every Friday afternoon, bringing groceries and helping me troubleshoot architectural rendering files for my expanding firm.

One evening, as we sat on the back patio watching the desert stars ignite across the velvet sky, Drew looked over at me with a soft smile.

“Do you ever think about calling them?” Drew asked quietly, swirling the ice in his glass. “Just to see how they're holding up?”

I took a slow sip of my water, looking out toward the dark, silent horizon where the distant lights of the city blinked like fallen stars.

“No, Drew,” I answered honestly. “For a long time, I thought love and family were obligations—things you had to endure, excuse, and forgive no matter how much damage they caused. But recovering from that ventilator taught me something vital: oxygen is finite. You only have so much breath in your lungs, and you can't waste it trying to inflate things that are already dead.”