My Greedy Son Made Me Ration Toilet Paper,So I Sold Everything

"He'll get used to it. Dad's a grown man—he's not that fragile."

I glared at her. "Absolutely not!"

"That medication stays. Don't even think about it."

Seeing how firm I was, Bridget dropped it.

But not before shooting Phineas a look when she thought I wasn't watching.

He caught her meaning immediately and waved his hand.

"Fine, fine. He can keep taking it. Forget I said anything."

After that day, Harold started getting worse.

His blood pressure swung wildly—spiking to 170, 180—and the symptoms came with it. Dizziness. Discomfort. A grayish tinge to his skin that hadn't been there before.

"Maybe we should go see a doctor," I said, worry gnawing at me.

"No need." He waved me off. "It's been hot lately, and those two have been getting under my skin. Blood pressure's bound to act up."

He didn't want to make a fuss. I knew the real reason. He was afraid of the bill, and even more afraid of giving Phineas and Bridget another excuse to complain.

Then one morning, Harold said the dizziness was unbearable.

I checked the monitor. Over 200.

My stomach dropped.

At numbers like that, a stroke or a brain hemorrhage wasn't a possibility—it was a coin flip.

I was grabbing my coat to take him to the hospital when the doorbell rang.

A middle-aged man I'd never seen before stood on the porch.

"Hi—is this Bridget Sears' place? I'm here to pick up the medication."

"What medication?" I stared at him.

"The prescription blood pressure pills. The imported ones." He said it casually, like he'd done this before. "Bridget sold me several boxes already. Said the old folks at home couldn't use them all, so she was letting them go cheap."

He shifted his weight. "I accidentally lost a box from my last batch, so I figured I'd come by early this time."

The words hit me like a freight train.

I turned and rushed to the TV stand, snatching up Harold's pill bottle. I held it under the light and studied the tablets inside.

The size was wrong.

Everything clicked into place.

Bridget had swapped Harold's medication. She'd replaced his prescription pills with cheap generics—and sold the real ones for cash.

No wonder his blood pressure had been spiraling out of control.

And that look between them. That little signal. Phineas knew. He'd known the whole time.

Harold and I looked at each other. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say that could match the weight of what we felt—a grief so deep it hollowed us out.

They came home not long after, arms loaded with shopping bags. Designer logos on every one.

I slammed the pill bottle onto the table. My voice shook no matter how hard I tried to steady it.

"Bridget. You switched his medication. And you've been selling it?"

Her expression flickered—just for a second—before the mask slid back into place.

"So what if I did? What's wrong with domestic brands? They work just fine."

"That prescription costs nearly ten thousand dollars a year! For what? A little blood pressure issue? Why does it need to be so extravagant?"

"A little blood pressure issue?" My finger trembled as I pointed at her. "Do you have any idea his reading hit two hundred?"

"You could have killed him!"

Phineas cut in, irritation dripping from every word.

"Mom, who are you trying to scare?"

"Tons of people have high blood pressure. You don't see them dropping dead left and right."

"Dad's standing right there, isn't he? He's fine. Stop making a mountain out of a molehill."

I opened my mouth, but Bridget was already shrieking over me.

"All you two do is spend money! You don't earn a dime! You should be grateful you're getting any pills at all!"

"Plenty of retirees go back to work. You two just sit around the house living the good life, and you still have the nerve to complain?"

"Exactly!" Phineas jumped in. "Dad's blood pressure problems? Honestly? He's just too idle. Eats too well."

"Get him out doing some manual labor, put him on a simple diet, and I guarantee every last symptom disappears."

"You—" I stepped back. The words died in my throat.

Harold sat motionless on the couch, silent through all of it. But his face had gone white. Paper white.

His hand pressed against his temple. His brow furrowed tight, like something was splitting apart inside his skull.

"Harold?" I rushed to him. "Harold, what's wrong?"

"My head…" His voice came in fragments. "It hurts… really bad…"

Then his body listed sideways. He slid off the couch and crumpled to the floor.