Chapter 3

The next morning, I woke up with a pounding headache and a raw throat from the emotional exhaustion. I went to check on my father and found him sitting up in bed, looking more lucid than he had in weeks. A small, fragile hope flickered within me.

"Dad?" I said softly, sitting on the edge of his bed. "How are you feeling?"

He turned to look at me, and for a moment, his eyes were clear. He recognized me. "Evelyn," he murmured, his voice raspy. He reached out and his hand found mine. His skin was thin, almost translucent. "Tired."

"I know, Dad. Just rest."

Just then, my phone rang. It was Julian. I ignored it. A few minutes later, the home health nurse, a kind woman named Maria, arrived for her morning visit. As she was taking my father' s vitals, my phone rang again. And again. Finally, I answered, stepping out into the hallway.

"What do you want, Julian?" I said, my voice cold and flat.

"I was worried," he said. The faux concern was back in his voice. "You didn't answer. After last night... I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine. No thanks to you." My response was clipped. I felt nothing for him anymore, no anger, just a vast, empty distance. The emotional well had run dry.

"Evelyn, please," he pleaded. "I was out of line. I was just... frustrated. I'm worried about Arthur. I' m worried about you."

"Save it," I said, and hung up.

Later, as Maria was helping me make my father some tea, she hesitated. "Dr. Reed," she began, her expression troubled. "I don't mean to overstep, but... Dr. Vance called me this morning. He was asking a lot of questions about your father's medication schedule, about his cognitive state. He said you weren't coping well and he needed to monitor the situation."

My blood ran cold. "He what?"

"He made it sound like he had your permission," Maria continued, looking apologetic. "He said you were too overwhelmed to manage the details. I didn't tell him anything specific, of course, but it was... unsettling. He seems to think he's in charge of your father's care."

My hands started to shake. Julian wasn't just attacking my professional reputation; he was actively trying to undermine my role as my father's guardian, painting me as an unstable, incapable daughter to the very people I relied on for help. The audacity of it was breathtaking. He was poisoning every part of my life.

Just as the fury was building, Julian appeared at the front door, this time with bags of groceries. He walked in as if he owned the place, a pleasant smile on his face.

"I thought you two could use some proper food," he announced cheerfully, heading toward the kitchen. "I got all of Arthur's favorites."

"What are you doing here?" I demanded, blocking his path.

His smile vanished. "I'm trying to help. Something you seem incapable of accepting. I just spoke with Maria, and she agrees that Arthur needs more consistent oversight."

"You have no right to speak to my father's nurse," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "You have no right to be in this house. I told you to stay away."

"This is Arthur's house!" he shot back, his volume rising. "I have every right to be here! I've been a part of his life for fifteen years! Longer than you have, if you count the years you were off building your own separate life!"

The accusation hit me like a physical blow. He was twisting my independence, my career, into an act of abandonment. He was using my own achievements against me.

"You're pathetic, Julian," I spat out.

His eyes narrowed. He dropped the grocery bags on the floor, the sound of a glass jar shattering echoing in the tense silence. "And you're a fool, Evelyn. A sentimental fool who is letting her father waste away while you cling to some childish notion of being the dutiful daughter."

He strode past me into the living room. His eyes landed on the mantelpiece, where a collection of framed family photos sat. One was a recent picture of me and my father, taken in the garden just a few weeks ago. My father was smiling, a rare, genuine smile.

Before I could react, Julian snatched the photo from the mantelpiece.

"What are you doing?" I cried out, rushing towards him.

"This is a fantasy," he said, his voice filled with contempt. He held the photo up. "You're pretending everything is fine, but it's not. He's not the man he was. You're living in the past."

"Give that back to me," I ordered, my hands clenched into fists.

With a sudden, violent movement, he threw the photo frame against the wall. The glass shattered, spraying tiny shards across the floor. The picture, torn from its frame, fluttered to the ground. The image of my father's smiling face was now marred by a sharp crease.

I stared at the broken frame, then at Julian. His face was flushed, his chest heaving with rage. The man before me was not a brilliant scientist. He was a petulant child having a tantrum, a cruel bully who destroyed things he couldn't possess. In that moment, any lingering trace of our shared history, any shred of sentiment I might have held for the boy my father had once mentored, was shattered along with the glass.