“Mom, please.”
There was something in her face that made me listen. I sat across from her at the kitchen table where I had packed her school lunches, filled out forms, counted bills, and prayed over overdue notices for years.
From her bag, she pulled a faded hospital receipt.
I frowned. “What is this?”
“Read the name.”
My hands shook as I took it.
It was old. Ten years old. The paper was yellowed at the edges. At the top was the hospital where I had received my cancer treatment. Halfway down, under payment details, was a note: Paid in full by donor.
I looked up. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Turn it over.”
There was a signature on the back. Not a full name. Just a stylized initials mark, sharp and slanted, with a strange flourish under the last letter.
