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.”
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.
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