He hesitated before agreeing.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “This is about your mother.”
“It’s also about your father.”
“I’ll come if you want me there.”
“I do.”
The office stood in the same neighborhood as the old clinic, though the building had been renovated and the entrance widened for wheelchair access.
Margaret greeted us in a small meeting room overlooking a courtyard.
She was in her late seventies, with silver hair pinned neatly at the back of her head and a careful, attentive manner that reminded me of the nurses who had watched over my mother during her last illness.
When Daniel showed her the letter, she held it by the edges.
“I remember this,” she said. “I made a copy for your mother before she left.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Margaret looked at me for a long moment, choosing her words.
“Your mother came to the clinic during an emergency. She had no way to pay for the treatment she needed, and the public assistance process was moving too slowly.”
