He begged Thomas to contact me.
Our phone number had changed, so Daniel gave him my mother’s address and asked him to visit me personally.
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“I went to the house,” Thomas said. “The small white one with the yellow front door and the rosebush beside the steps.”
I knew exactly which house he meant. I had lived with my mother then, and I would have remembered Thomas if he had visited.
“Who answered the door?” I asked.
“Your mother.”
Thomas explained that he had told her Daniel was dying and wanted to see me. But my mother had refused to let him speak to me. She believed Daniel had already caused enough pain and that I had finally begun rebuilding my life.
“She told me you didn’t want to see him,” Thomas said. “She thought she was protecting you.”
I could barely breathe.
For five years, I had believed Daniel had chosen to abandon us. Meanwhile, Daniel had died believing I knew he was sick and had refused to see him.
