For the first time in ten years, Mr. Raymond looked at peace. He slept in a soft bed, watched the television in his room, and looked at the deeds to the house in Georgia over and over again, running his fingers across the gold seal of the adoption papers.
“I don’t deserve this, Julian,” he whispered on Wednesday night, twelve hours before his surgery.
“You sold your blood plasma three times in one month so I could buy the textbooks for my freshman year at NYU,” I said, sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, peeling an apple for him. “Don’t ever tell me what you do or don’t deserve.”
He smiled, a genuine, deep smile that smoothed away the wrinkles on his face. “I just wanted you to have a name that meant something. My name wasn’t much, but…”
“It’s the only name I ever wanted,” I replied.
