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.
