The next day, I flew to Michigan. My mother was alive—frostbitten fingers, a bruised hip, but alive. I asked for Derek’s number.
He answered on the second ring. I tried to thank him, but my words stuck. He interrupted me.
The following day, I drove to his house with flowers, a card, and a $5,000 check. He refused it. “Take care of your mom,” he said.
His wife came to the door. Calm, but firm. “My husband nearly froze carrying your mother. He couldn’t move for a day. But he would do it again. Because that’s who he is. He doesn’t leave people behind.”
The shame burned hotter than the winter storm.
Continue reading…
