“What?”
“I never received anything.”
The world tilted.
“That’s impossible. I sent it to the account—the one I opened before I left.”
His father shook his head.
“I’ve been selling water for three years just to eat.”
Daniel felt sick.
Three years. In traffic. Under the sun. At eighty.
And he did not know.
“How?” Daniel whispered. “Who?”
His father picked up the last sachet, placing it back into the basin.
“Your brother,” he said quietly.
Daniel’s heart dropped.
Michael.
“He said he would help manage the account. Said I didn’t understand banking.”
Daniel stood slowly, rage rising—cold, sharp, controlled.
“Come with me,” he said.
“I have to work.”
“You’re not working anymore.”
Daniel reached for the basin. His father pulled it back.
“You don’t get to come back now and act like a son.”
The words hit hard.
“I’m not acting,” Daniel said. “I’m here.”
“Where were you when your mother died?”
Silence.
The question hung heavy.
Daniel swallowed.
“I didn’t know.”
“I called you. I changed numbers. I sent a letter.”
“We never got anything.”
Another piece fell into place.
Another lie.
Another theft.
“Where were you when I was in the hospital?” his father continued. “When I had no one?”
Daniel had no answer.
Because there was not one.
“I’m here now,” he said softly.
“Too late.”
The crowd around them murmured. Phones were out. People were whispering, judging.
Daniel did not care.
“Please,” he said. “Come with me. Just for today. Let’s talk.”
His father hesitated, looked at the basin, then at the sky, then back at Daniel.
A long moment.
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