The clinic had found a copy of a brief note from my mother, preserved in a box of old correspondence.
Daniel read it aloud to me over the phone.
She had thanked Alexander’s father for his help and said she would not accept further money.
She had also asked him never to tell me about the treatment unless I was old enough to ask for the truth
herself.
I closed my eyes.
My mother had not wanted me to grow up feeling indebted to a family I might never know.
Daniel went quiet after he read the last line.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you’d want to know.”
“I do.”
“Do you want a copy?”
“Yes.”
After we ended the call, I sat with the phone in my hand, thinking about the promise my mother had
asked him to keep.
She had trusted Alexander’s father with a small, painful part of her life.
