When they arrived, staff were stunned. Derek was soaked, shivering, his beard crusted with ice. “You carried her?” the director asked. He nodded. “I couldn’t leave her there.”
They got my mother inside, warm and safe. A police report was filed. The director called me at 9 p.m. I almost ignored it again—but this time, I didn’t.
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.
He answered on the second ring. I tried to thank him, but my words stuck. He interrupted me.
“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.
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