I nodded as if people like me had the luxury of being sick on schedule.
That night, I climbed onto a chair, took down the shoebox, and opened it.
The card lay there exactly where I had left it, dulled by time.
I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at it for nearly an hour.
At some point I told myself the truth I had been avoiding: pride was not going to pay for treatment.
By morning, I was standing in that bank office, staring at a number big enough to alter the rest of my life.
The manager slid the envelope toward me.
My hands were trembling so badly I could barely break the seal.
Inside was a folded letter on thick paper and a single business card for an attorney I did not know.
I unfolded the letter and recognized Richard’s handwriting immediately.
It was still precise, though shakier than I remembered.
The first line made my throat close.
If you are reading this, then I was wrong about how long your pride would keep you from touching what was always yours.
I had to stop and press the page flat against the desk because my vision blurred.
The manager quietly set a glass of water beside me, but I barely noticed.
I kept reading.
I lied to you the day of the divorce.
It was never 3,000 dollars.
If I had told you the truth, you would have pushed the card back into my hand or cut it in half in front of me.
I needed you to keep it, even if you kept it out of hatred.
The account holds your half of the house sale, your half of the retirement money, the savings, and everything else I could move into your name without a fight.
After the divorce, I added to it every month.
My mouth went dry.
Your half.
The words hit me harder than the balance had.
