Chapter 3
My aunt Rochelle had always been my mother's favorite person.
Whenever she visited, Mom became happier.
They laughed about things I didn't understand.
They shared secrets.
And they always disappeared into the kitchen together.
Rochelle was thirty-nine.
She wore expensive clothes and drove a white luxury SUV.
She didn't have children of her own, but she always told people she treated me like her son.
I used to believe her.
Until I heard my mother say those words.
She said nobody would ever know.
Dad stared at her.
“What exactly did Rochelle tell you?”
Mom shook her head.
“Not here.”
“Denise, our son is in a hospital bed. You're going to tell me everything.”
Dr. Bennett intervened.
“Marcus, I understand your frustration, but we need to handle this carefully.”
Dad stepped back.
Mom sat down.
She explained that Rochelle had recently become interested in natural health products.
She sold wellness mixtures through a small online business.
According to Mom, Rochelle had given her a homemade nutritional formula and claimed it would help children build stronger immune systems.
“She said Malik needed extra support,” Mom explained.
Dad frowned.
“Why would our son need that?”
“He was tired after school.”
“He was tired because he plays basketball for two hours every afternoon!”
Mom looked away.
“She said his diet wasn't enough.”
Dr. Bennett asked whether Rochelle had provided a written ingredient list.
Mom shook her head.
“She gave me instructions.”
“Were those instructions prepared by a licensed medical professional?”
“No.”
“Did you consult Malik's pediatrician?”
“No.”
Dad slowly shook his head.
I had never heard him speak so quietly.
“You gave our son something every day without knowing exactly what was in it?”
Mom began crying.
“I trusted my sister.”
Dad looked at her.
“You were supposed to protect him.”
The words made the room feel smaller.
Mom covered her face.
Dr. Bennett explained that they would not assume the formula was responsible for every finding until the laboratory work was complete.
But the repeated symptoms and the information about the drink required serious investigation.
He also explained that the hospital would preserve the remaining samples.
Dad agreed to cooperate with the appropriate authorities.
I was transferred to a monitored room.
The nurses checked my condition regularly.
Dad stayed beside me.
Mom was allowed to visit under the hospital's safeguarding arrangements, but she wasn't permitted to bring me anything to eat or drink.
I didn't mind.
For the first time in weeks, nobody was forcing me to finish that awful brown mixture.
That evening, Dad brought my favorite stuffed basketball.
He placed it beside my pillow.
“You remember this?”
I smiled weakly.
“You gave it to me after my first game.”
“You scored two points.”
“Three.”
He laughed.
“Two. One of them was a free throw you missed.”
I laughed too.
It hurt my stomach, but it felt good.
Then Dad's phone rang.
He stepped into the hallway.
I heard him speaking to someone.
“Yes, Rochelle is the sister.”
“No, she hasn't provided the full ingredient information.”
“Please document everything.”
He returned several minutes later.
“Who was that?”
“Your father's friend?”
He shook his head.
“Someone helping us understand what happened.”
I nodded.
Then I asked the question I had been holding inside.
“Are you going to divorce Mom?”
Dad sat down.
“Why are you asking that?”
“Because you look like you don't love her anymore.”
He stared at the floor.
“Malik, adults sometimes have serious problems. But none of those problems are your fault.”
I looked at him.
“Did she know it was hurting me?”
He took a breath.
“I don't know everything yet.”
“But she saw me crying.”
His eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“And she still made me drink it.”
Dad couldn't answer.
He reached for my hand.
“I wish I had noticed sooner.”
I shook my head.
“You weren't home in the mornings.”
“I should have asked more questions.”
I wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault.
But I was twelve.
I didn't know how to comfort a father who looked as though his world had fallen apart.
The next morning, Dr. Bennett returned with preliminary results.
He explained that one of the substances identified in the sample was not appropriate for a child in the amount reported.
The doctors were still determining whether it explained all my symptoms.
But he was concerned enough to involve a specialist.
Dad listened carefully.
“Can you treat him?”
“We're already treating his symptoms and monitoring his condition. We'll adjust his care as the results come in.”
Mom arrived just as the doctor finished.
She looked exhausted.
“Can I see my son?”
Dad moved aside.
She approached my bed.
“Malik…”
I turned my face away.
Her eyes filled.
“Please don't do that.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
She started crying.
“Because I'm your mother.”
I swallowed.
“Then why didn't you believe me when I said I was hurting?”
She covered her mouth.
No answer came.
And just as Dad reached for the chair, his phone rang again.
He checked the screen.
His expression hardened.
It was Aunt Rochelle.
Dad answered on speaker.
“What did you give my son?”
There was a pause.
Then Rochelle laughed nervously.
“Marcus, don't start.”
Dad's voice became cold.
“Your formula is making him sick.”
“That little boy is dramatic.”
I stared at the phone.
Dad stood.
“Never speak about my son like that again.”
Rochelle sighed.
“Denise is making this bigger than it is.”
Then she said something that made Mom stand abruptly.
“Besides, she knows exactly why we started giving him that mixture.”
May you like
Dad turned toward my mother.
“What does she mean?”
