When I spoke, my voice was low. Devoid of anger. Yet it carried a weight that silenced the room in an instant.
"Son, do you remember when you were ten? It was winter then, too."
I paused, letting the memory take shape.
"You had a fever. Burning up. Scorching hot to the touch. The snow was so heavy it had sealed off the mountain roads. The village doctor was too afraid of the storm to come to us."
Joshua stiffened.
"I carried you on my back," I continued, my voice steady. "Trudging through drifts that rose from my knees to my waist. Twelve miles of mountain road to get you to the clinic in town. When we finally arrived, the doctor said if we had been half a day later, the fever would have permanently damaged your brain."
A violent tremor ran through my son's body. The color drained from his face, leaving him deathly pale.
I went on, narrating the events as if they belonged to someone else. A story from a distant lifetime.
"The year you got into college... the day the admission notice arrived, your mother was so happy she wept. But the tuition?" A pause. "We didn't have it. I sold the only yellow ox our family owned. Our livelihood. But I sold it for you."