“You should be ashamed,” he said. “This woman carried you for nine months and raised you for eighteen years. And you didn’t answer the phone. Do better.” Then he hung up.
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.
The shame burned hotter than the winter storm.
Within a week, I relocated Mom to Florida. Paid the $80,000 penalty. Worth every cent. I visit her every day now. Tom and I don’t speak. When asked if I have a brother, I say yes—his name is Derek.
He stops by when passing through Florida. Mom lights up when she sees him, though she can’t recall why. “You look like my father,” she tells him. He smiles and replies, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Once, I asked him why he did it—why carry a stranger through a blizzard?
He looked at me as though the answer was obvious. “Because she needed help. Because she mattered. And because I couldn’t live with myself if I left her there.”
I still wrestle with guilt over my own failure.
But I’m trying.
Continue reading…
