Then I walked out.
The hospital smelled like disinfectant and cold air.
Phedra sat in a wheelchair while the nurses prepared her admission.
I stood beside her.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t thousands of kilometers away.
I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Beside my wife.
A nurse came toward us.
“Sir, we need information about her medical history.”
I handed over the documents.
The nurse looked through them.
Her expression changed.
“Some of these records are incomplete.”
“I know.”
“Who was paying for her treatment?”
I looked at Phedra.
She whispered,
“My husband.”
The nurse looked at me.
I nodded.
“Apparently not.”
She didn’t ask further.
Hours passed.
Tests.
Blood work.
Scans.
Consultations.
Phedra eventually fell asleep.
I sat beside her bed.
Her shaved head rested against the pillow.
I gently touched her hand.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her eyes opened slightly.
“Because you were finally doing something good with your life.”
“What?”
“You were building our future.”
I shook my head.
“Our future was you.”
She began to cry.
“I didn’t want you to come back and hate them.”
“I don’t hate them.”
She looked at me.
I wiped her tears.
“I’m trying to understand them.”
She stared at me for several seconds.
Then she whispered,
“Damian…”
“What?”
“There is something you don’t know.”
I leaned closer.
“What?”
She looked toward the door.
Then back at me.
“The money didn’t just disappear.”
My heart stopped.
“What do you mean?”
“They kept records.”
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
I sat upright.
“Where?”
Phedra swallowed.
“In the old sewing room.”
“What records?”
“Every transfer.”
My pulse began to race.
“Why would she keep records?”
“Because…”
She hesitated.
“She wasn’t the only person receiving the money.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
Phedra’s eyes filled with fear.
“Damian, your mother has been sending money somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I found one of the envelopes.”
“What was inside?”
She looked at me.
“A photograph.”
My stomach tightened.
“Whose photograph?”
Phedra reached under her pillow.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled out a small folded piece of paper.
She handed it to me.
I opened it.
There was a photograph inside.
A young woman.
A little girl.
And a man I had never seen before.
On the back, written in my mother’s handwriting, were six words:
