“It’s not for you. It’s for your daughter.” He held out an envelope. “One year of insulin. Paid in full. Along with health insurance for both of you.”
I stared at the envelope. “Why?”
“Because you were right. I can’t buy miracles. But I can remove obstacles for people who create them.”
The foundation launched six months later. We called it “The Listening Project.” I didn’t run it—I didn’t have the credentials. But I trained the staff. Taught them what Mrs. Rodriguez taught me.
Amelia came to the center every week. Sometimes she talked. Sometimes she didn’t. Both were okay.
One afternoon, she found me in my office. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“Do you think my mom would be proud of me? For talking again?”
I knelt down to her level. “I think your mom is proud of you every single day. Talking or not talking. That doesn’t change.”
“Victoria said I killed her. Said if I hadn’t been crying in the car, Mom wouldn’t have been distracted.”
My blood went cold. “Victoria said that to you?”
Amelia nodded. “Before she left. When no one was listening.”
“When did this happen?”
“The day after Mom died. And lots of times after.”