‘We can’t afford the specialist camp Ethan wants.’
Daniel had sent Rebecca money for years.
‘We need to be careful this month.’
‘The roof can wait.’
Apparently Rebecca couldn’t.
“While I was counting grocery coupons, you had another daughter?”
I said it to Daniel’s photograph.
Money I remembered arguing about.
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Then I threw the photograph across the room.
It didn’t make me feel better.
The next morning, I checked the transfers.
Every one of them was real.
You had another daughter?
I started with the oldest.
- Three hundred.
- Then five hundred.
- Then eight.
By the time Lily was ten, the payments were almost monthly.
Statement after statement stretched across nearly eighteen years.
By noon, I had three pages of dates, amounts, and accounts.
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The numbers weren’t the part I needed anymore.
It didn’t make me feel better.
I needed Rebecca.
So I called the transplant coordinator. “My name is Laura C. My son was Ethan C.”
There was a pause.
“Yes. I remember.”
“I need Rebecca’s contact information.”
Another pause.
I needed Rebecca.
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“I’m sorry?”
“The mother of the girl who received Ethan’s heart.”
“I’m afraid I can’t provide that.”
“She came to his funeral. She gave me a letter from my son.”
“I understand, but I can’t release the recipient family’s private information.”
“Even if I know her name?”
I need Rebecca’s contact information.
“That doesn’t change our privacy rules.”
I stood up and started pacing.
“Can you call her?”
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“I can pass along a request for contact.”
“How long will that take?”
“I can’t promise she’ll respond.”
She gave me a letter from my son.
“She found me. Why can’t I find her?”
