I threw up. Then I called Tom and screamed. He screamed back. Neither of us was wrong about the other.
The next day, I flew to Michigan. My mother was alive—frostbitten fingers, a bruised hip, but alive. I asked for Derek’s number.
“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.
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.
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?
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