Chapter 4 — Her First Wound

I eased back into the chair. The cabin seemed to tilt around me, though nothing moved — not the flowers, not the album, not the curtains stirring in the sea breeze.

Only my understanding of the last thirty years shifted into something completely different.

“She found me four years ago,” Carol continued. “She hired someone to help locate me. I was already sick then. I have a progressive neuromuscular condition.

Some days are better than others. Insurance paid for parts of my care, but not the life around it. Helen wanted to help.”

I thought about the “charity donation.” The checkbooks she always handled herself. The weekends she called women’s retreats, follow-up appointments, quiet trips to think.

The distance I had blamed on grief, aging, marriage, and time.