He knew he was at fault for the way he and Jessica had been looking at each other.
But part of the problem was also that Jessica didn’t want to see him spending time with Sheila.
Timothy hesitated for a moment before finally answering the call.
Some things needed to be said clearly to Sheila, once and for all.
“Timothy, I just heard Sallie on the phone, something about going back home for Henry’s testing—what happened to Henry? I’m really worried.”
His father had told him to call Sallie, but he hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
But now Sheila already knew—clearly, the family had called Sallie before he had.
“From now on, I don’t want you involved in Henry’s affairs,” Timothy said, his tone cold and measured.
Sheila felt an ache in her chest, tight and suffocating.
“So I can’t even care about Henry anymore? He and I have always been close. Hearing you say that—it really hurts.”
Timothy let out a heavy sigh. All these years, he’d carried a sense of guilt towards Sheila. He was always trying to make it up to her.
In his mind, ever since Sheila refused to marry him, their relationship had gone back to being simply aunt and nephew.
They had grown up together, always close, to the point that he assumed Jessica, his gentle and understanding wife, should trust him—should understand.
He had never considered Jessica’s feelings, never thought that, as a married man, he should keep a certain distance from Sheila.
That was his mistake.
He had overlooked the fact that Sheila was, after all, only his aunt in name—there was no real blood between them.
If she truly were a blood relative, Jessica probably wouldn’t have worried so much.
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