Then slowly smiled for the first time since the crash.
At 6:40 a.m., my father arrived carrying expensive coffee and fake concern.
“Look who’s finally awake early,” he said smoothly.
Celia followed behind him in cream-colored cashmere, sunglasses still on indoors like she was arriving at brunch instead of a hospital room.
“You gave everyone such a scare,” she sighed.
I looked at her.
Then at him.
And said softly:
“I remember the accident.”
Silence.
Tiny.
Sharp.
Instant.
My father recovered first.
“That’s normal after trauma,” he said casually. “Memories get confused.”
“No,” I replied. “I remember your SUV crossing the line.”
Celia’s fingers tightened around her purse.
My father smiled slowly.
“Elena…”
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