The next morning, I woke up in pain. The grief and shock had triggered a severe stomach spasm. I curled into myself on the bed, shaking as cold sweat soaked through my pajamas. I struggled to reach for the phone on my nightstand, but I did not even have the strength to lift my hand. Just as my vision began to blur, the bedroom door opened. Eric entered with breakfast. When he saw me, his face changed, and he rushed to my side. "Aimee! What's wrong?" He called the family doctor immediately. After a long stretch of chaos, the pain finally eased. I lay weakly in bed with an IV in my arm while Eric sat beside me, dipping a cotton swab in water to moisten my cracked lips. His eyes were full of worry and guilt. "This is my fault," he murmured. "I should have noticed sooner that you weren't feeling well." Looking at his concern, I found it deeply ironic. 'If it isn't for you, Eric, how could I end up like this?' Then his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, and the h
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