After that call, everything in our house revolved around Lily’s recovery. Travis would come home from visiting her, looking defeated. He’d run his hands through his hair and stare at the bills spread across our kitchen table.
“The therapy sessions cost $300 each,” he said, his voice heavy with worry. “Insurance only covers a fraction. She needs them twice a week, maybe more.”
I watched him struggle with the math and the way his shoulders sagged when he talked about Lily’s progress. He never directly asked me for money, but the weight of his stress filled our home like smoke.
“Don’t worry about the cost,” I finally said one evening, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “We’ll figure it out together. Lily needs this.”
His eyes filled with tears. “I don’t deserve you, Mia. I really don’t. Thanks for helping.”
So I started transferring money into his account every month. First $5K, then $7K, and then $10K as Lily’s needs supposedly increased. I emptied my savings account and cashed out the inheritance my grandmother left me.
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