He had kept the letter.
He had kept the photograph.
He had kept the secret.
Then, years later, he had told his son to be kind to me without explaining why.
I wanted to believe he had meant only kindness.
I wanted to believe there had been nothing more.
Two days later, Alexander called through Daniel and asked if I would meet him at the lake house.
“I found another document in my father’s archive,” he said. “It’s connected to the fund, and I think you should see it before the company’s review is finished.”
I agreed, with Daniel present.
Alexander arrived carrying a narrow folder.
He placed it on the kitchen table and waited for Daniel to open it.
Inside was a ledger page from the year I was born.
It listed the payment for my mother’s treatment, followed by a later entry to the same account.
