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“At first, when I saw you in that bed, I looked at you and saw punishment,” he wrote. “For my pride. For my temper. I’m ashamed, but you need the truth: sometimes, in the beginning, I resented you. Not for anything you did. Because you were proof of what my anger cost.”
Tears blurred the words.
“You were innocent. The only thing you ever did was survive. Taking you home was the only right choice I had left. Everything after that was me trying to pay a debt I can’t pay.”
He explained why he hadn’t told me.
Then he wrote about the money.
“I told myself I was protecting you. Really, I was also protecting myself. I couldn’t stand the thought of you looking at me and seeing the man who helped put you in that chair.”
I pressed the paper to my chest and sobbed.
Then Ray wrote about the money.
I’d always thought we were just scraping by.
He told me about the life insurance from my parents that he’d put in his name so the state couldn’t touch it.
I wiped my face and kept reading.
Ray told me about years of overtime as a lineman. Storm shifts. Overnight calls.
“I used some to keep us afloat,” the letter read. “The rest is in a trust. It was always meant for you. The lawyer’s card is in the envelope. Anita knows him.”
I wiped my face and kept reading.
“I sold the house. I wanted you to have enough for real rehab, real equipment, real help. Your life doesn’t have to stay the size of that room.”
He’d been part of what ruined my life.