For years, the condition had been manageable. She could work, go out, fall in love, pretend that her future looked normal.
Then she became pregnant with me.
She wrote that she and my father had loved each other deeply, even though they were both far too young and had almost no money. He wanted to make it work. So did she.
She would die.
But the pregnancy made her health worse.
Doctors warned her that she would need treatment they could barely afford. After I was born, she became weaker. Some mornings, she could hardly get out of bed.
She was terrified she would die.
Then, shortly after my birth, someone approached her with an offer.
Doctors warned her.
She never knew the person’s name.
According to the letter, everything was arranged anonymously.
Her medical treatment would be paid for.
She would be given enough money to rent a decent place, recover, and live without constantly wondering how she would afford the next appointment.
She had to leave.
There was only one condition.
She had to leave.
Not just leave town.
She had to leave my father and me.
Forever.
She had to leave.
My mother wrote that she cried for days after hearing the offer.
She hated herself for even thinking about accepting it.
But she was sick, frightened, and convinced that my father was destroying his own future trying to take care of her.
She had started seeing herself as a burden.
And eventually, she convinced herself that maybe we would both be better off without her.
She was terrified.
So she accepted.
