“It’s complicated.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“They’re looking at a few things. Chronic fatigue. maybe autoimmune. There are overlapping symptoms.”
“Which doctor is managing that?”
Her eyes flicked to my mother.
I kept my tone gentle. “I don’t need records. I’m not asking for private details. But if I were transferring a home for medical reasons, I’d want to know what accommodations are needed. Lighting? stairs? grab bars? air filtration? It matters.”
Kara swallowed. “I’m not comfortable sharing that.”
“One doctor’s name?”
“It’s private.”
“Primary care?”
Silence.
“Specialist?”
More silence.
“Anyone you’ve seen in the last six years for the condition that makes work impossible?”
My mother’s face tightened. “Ethan, that’s enough.”
“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”
I connected my phone to the television.
The first photo filled the screen.
Kara at the gym, smiling in leggings, one foot on a bench, dumbbell in hand. Date in the corner. Three weeks earlier.
My sister’s face changed.
The second photo: Kara at a club with friends, laughing, one arm lifted, timestamped 1:14 a.m.
The third: Kara on a mountain trail two months earlier, sunburned and grinning beneath a caption about finding strength in nature.
Fourth: beach trip.
Fifth: shopping day with six bags on her arms.
Sixth: concert floor, standing in a crowd.
Seventh: spa check-in from the “clinic” she claimed was necessary for her recovery.
I did not speak between photos. I let the room absorb them one by one.