I do not remember much of the next minute except the sound of my own breathing and the terrible, childish thought that arrived in my head: You don’t get to tell me this after you’re gone.
That was the sharpest part of it.
Not just that he had lied.
Not just that he had hidden a diagnosis and a fortune from me.
It was that he had made one more enormous decision about my life without asking me, then died before I could tell him what it had cost.
The letter was not finished.
I forced myself to keep reading.
You do not owe me forgiveness.
I would not ask for it if I were standing in front of you.
But I need you to know this much: I never believed you were worth 3,000 dollars.
The truth is harder than that.
I knew there was no number large enough to measure what you gave me, and I was ashamed that the only way I knew how to protect you was to wound you first.
Use the money.
Get treatment.
