I stared at him.
“But why did she call you? She doesn’t know you.”
“She said you kept asking whether your parents were coming.”
My chest tightened.
“She told me you sounded frightened. Then she asked if I was your brother.”
He gave a small, sad smile.
“I told her I was.”
I swallowed.
“What did you do?”
“I left work.”
Just like that.
No hesitation.
No demand for an explanation.
No reminder of the years I had ignored him.
He had simply left work and come running.
I lowered my eyes.
“Thank you.”
Elias reached over and squeezed my hand.
“Get some rest. We have plenty of time to talk.”
But I couldn’t stop thinking about my parents.
After everything, I still wanted to believe there was an innocent explanation.
Perhaps their phones had run out of battery.
Perhaps they were somewhere they couldn’t receive calls.
Perhaps they didn’t know how serious my condition was.
I clung to those possibilities because the alternative was too painful.
Then my phone buzzed on the bedside table.
A message from my mother.
I grabbed it with my free hand.
For one hopeful second, I thought she had finally heard about the surgery.
Instead, her message read:
Mom: Your father and I are busy. Stop calling repeatedly. We will talk when we are ready.
I stared at the screen.
The room seemed to grow colder.
Elias noticed my expression.
“What is it?”
I handed him the phone.
He read the message once.
Then he read it again.
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything.
I tried to make excuses for them.
“Maybe they don’t understand how serious it was.”
Elias slowly placed the phone back on the table.
“Har, you were in emergency surgery.”
“I know.”
“They knew you were in the hospital?”
“I gave their numbers to the nurse. I don’t know what she told them.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I see.”
There was something in his voice that made me look at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Elias, tell me.”
He stared at the floor for a long moment.
Then he looked up.
“Before you decide what this means, there’s something you need to know about the night I left home.”
My heart began beating faster.
“What about it?”
“I didn’t leave because I wanted to.”
He took a slow breath.
“I left because Dad gave me a choice. I could accept responsibility for the missing money, sign a document admitting I’d taken it, and protect the family from public embarrassment…”
He paused.
“Or I could leave, take nothing, and never speak about what happened again.”
I felt a chill move through me.
“But you said you didn’t steal anything.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why would he ask you to confess?”
Elias looked directly into my eyes.
“Because the money was missing, and someone had to take the blame.”
I tried to sit up, but the pain stopped me.
“Who?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he reached into his jacket and removed a small, worn envelope.
He placed it on my blanket.
“I’ve kept this for almost two years.”
I stared at the envelope.
My name was written across the front in Elias’s handwriting.
“Harlo.”
My fingers trembled as I touched it.
“What is this?”
“Something I should have given you a long time ago.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I promised Mom I wouldn’t expose what happened unless someone in the family was willing to hear my side of the story.”
I looked up at him.
“And now?”
“Now you’re lying in a hospital bed, your parents haven’t come, and I think you deserve to know the truth.”
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a folded letter, several printed bank statements, and a photograph.
The photograph showed my father standing outside a bank beside a man I recognized immediately.
My mother’s younger brother.
My uncle, Victor.
But it wasn’t the photograph that made my blood run cold.
It was the date printed on the back.
The picture had been taken three days before my brother was accused of stealing the money.
I looked at Elias.
“Why were Dad and Uncle Victor at the bank?”
Elias leaned forward.
“Because the missing money wasn’t stolen by me.”
His voice dropped.
“And I have reason to believe your parents knew exactly who took it.”
I looked down at the papers.
For two years, I had defended my parents.
For two years, I had avoided my brother.
And now, as I lay recovering from emergency surgery, the first crack had appeared in the story I had believed my entire adult life.
I unfolded the letter.
The first line read:
Dear Harlo, if you’re reading this, it means I’ve finally been given a chance to tell you what really happened.
I began to read.
And by the third paragraph, I understood why Elias had never come home.
Because the money my father accused him of stealing wasn’t the only thing my family had been hiding.
And the next name in the letter was mine.