I stared at that note for a long time.
I didn’t remember being sick as a baby. My mom had never mentioned it.
I opened the second envelope. June 14, 1999. My second birthday.
Another receipt. This one from a children’s hospital in Houston. A deposit for something called a “cranial specialist consultation.” $1,200.
The note said: “Rode to Houston to pay the deposit in person. They needed cash. Insurance denied the claim again. She’s walking now. Talking. Doctors say she’s improving. Worth every mile.”
My hands were shaking.
The third envelope. June 14, 2000.
A receipt from the same pharmacy in El Paso. More medication. $634.
“Three years old today. Smart as hell. Knows all her colors. Knows the alphabet. Nobody would ever know she was sick. That’s the point. She never has to know.”
She never has to know.
