We drove to Catherine's house without speaking much.
Michael's hands remained tight around the steering wheel.
“What did she say?”
“She wouldn't explain.”
“She sounded frightened?”
“Yes.”
He accelerated slightly.
I touched his arm.
“Slow down.”
He immediately eased off.
That small response reminded me how much our lives had changed.
Before me, Michael would have carried everything alone.
Now he allowed someone to tell him when he was moving too fast.
When we reached Catherine's house, she was waiting in the living room.
An old wooden box sat on the table.
Michael stopped when he saw it.
“What is that?”
Catherine looked at me first.
Then at him.
“I should have shown you years ago.”
Michael's expression hardened.
“Mother.”
“I know.”
She touched the box.
“I should have.”
He sat down.
“What is inside?”
“Documents.”
She opened the lid.
Inside were photographs, medical records, receipts, and several envelopes.
Michael picked up the first document.
His eyes moved across the page.
Then he looked at his mother.
“You kept these?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you weren't ready.”
“For what?”
Catherine looked at me.
“For the truth.”
Michael became very still.
I sat beside him.
Catherine pushed one photograph toward us.
It showed Michael's father.
I had seen photographs of him before.
But this one was different.
He was standing beside a car.
A second person stood next to him.
Michael recognized him immediately.
“That was the driver.”
Catherine nodded.
Michael's fingers tightened around the photograph.
“I thought he died.”
“He didn't.”
Silence filled the room.
I looked at Michael.
His face had gone pale.
“What does this mean?” he asked.
Catherine took a breath.
“The accident wasn't exactly what we were told.”
Michael stood.
“What are you saying?”
“The driver was drunk.”
“I knew that.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You knew there had been alcohol. You didn't know what happened before he hit you.”
Michael stared at her.
Catherine's voice trembled.
“He had argued with your father.”
Michael said nothing.
“He was driving too fast because he was angry.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you were seventeen.”
“I deserved to know.”
“You deserved to survive first.”
Michael turned away.
I watched his shoulders rise and fall.
The anger in him was not loud.
It was worse than loud.
It was contained.
Catherine continued.
“The driver came to me afterward.”
Michael turned.
“What did he want?”
“Forgiveness.”
Michael laughed bitterly.
“He wanted forgiveness?”
“He wanted me to say it wasn't his fault.”
“And you did?”
“No.”
Catherine looked down.
“I never forgave him.”
The silence returned.
Michael sat again.
He looked exhausted.
I took his hand.
He didn't pull away.
Catherine reached for another envelope.
“This is why I called you.”
Michael opened it.
Inside was an address.
“The man is still alive.”
Michael stared at the paper.
“Why are you giving me this now?”
“Because he contacted me.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does he want?” I asked.
Catherine looked at me.
“He says he wants to apologize.”
Michael folded the paper.
“I don't want to see him.”
Catherine nodded.
“I expected that.”
She hesitated.
“But there is something else.”
Michael looked at her.
“He has a daughter.”
I waited.
“She is ill.”
Michael's expression changed.
Catherine continued.
“She needs an operation.”
The room became silent.
“And?”
“The man claims he cannot afford it.”
Michael stared at his mother.
“Why would that concern me?”
“Because he says he knows you have money.”
Michael stood again.
“He wants money.”
“Yes.”
I felt something cold move through me.
The past had returned.
Not because of love.
Not because of regret.
Because someone needed something from Michael.
The same pattern.
Different reason.
Michael walked to the window.
“I won't give him anything.”
I understood why.
His entire life had taught him to distrust requests that arrived wrapped in guilt.
But I also knew Michael.
He could not easily ignore suffering.
I stepped beside him.
“You don't have to decide today.”
He looked at me.
“I know.”
That evening, we went home.
Michael barely spoke.
He sat in the workshop long after dark.
I brought him coffee.
“You don't have to help him.”
“I know.”
“You also don't have to punish the daughter for what her father did.”
He looked at me.
“I know.”
“What are you thinking?”
“That if I help, he'll think he finally got something from me.”
“Then don't give him anything.”
Michael looked down.
“And if the girl dies?”
I had no answer.
He leaned back in his chair.
“This is why I hate the past.”
I touched his shoulder.
“It keeps asking you to make choices for people who hurt you.”
He looked at me.
“Would you forgive him?”
“I don't know.”
“Would you help his daughter?”
I thought carefully.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“So would I.”
The next morning, Michael made a decision.
He would not meet the man.
He would not give him money directly.
But he would contact the hospital and find out what the girl needed.
That decision changed everything.
Because the information the hospital gave him contained a name.
And that name belonged to someone neither of us expected.
Click Here to continue read next: PART7: The Hospital Record Revealed a Connection No One Had Mentioned, and Michael Had to Face the Difference Between Forgiveness and Responsibility
At Forty, I Had Stopped Expecting Love to Knock, So When My Mother Offered Michael, I Made a Choice I Thought Would Cost Me Nothing
Part 6 of 16
