In the picture was a much younger William, probably around forty years old.
He was surrounded by a group of children.
I turned the photograph over.
An address was written on the back.
I recognized it immediately.
It was the address of the group home where I had spent years
of my childhood.
“What is this?” I whispered.
Harris said nothing.
I continued reading.
William explained that when he was younger, he and his wife had been unable to have children. Eventually, they decided to use part of their money to help children living in foster care.
Over the years, William anonymously paid for the education, clothing, and medical needs of hundreds of children.
I had been one of them.
I stopped reading.
“What?”
Harris nodded.
“Several of your medical expenses and school programs when you were a child were funded by William’s foundation.”
I could hardly process what I was hearing.
But the biggest surprise was still ahead.
In the letter, William explained that when he first hired me, he hadn’t recognized me.
A few weeks later, he happened to notice the address of my former group home and my last name among some of my documents.
That was
when he realized I had been one of the children he had anonymously helped years earlier.
“I could have simply given you money,” William had written.
“But you never would have accepted it.
I realized that the day I offered to advance you money for Sophie’s medication, and you insisted that you would repay every cent.
You never asked me for a car, jewelry, or money.
Not even after we were married.
When I offered to buy you a new car, you chose a used one.
When I wanted to buy you an expensive dress, you told me Sophie’s school expenses mattered more.
That was when I understood that, in the beginning, you had married me because you were afraid.
Afraid your daughter would have no home.
But then, one day, everything changed.”
I swallowed hard, trying to hold back my tears.
I remembered that day.
After a fall on
the stairs, William could no longer walk on his own.
The doctors recommended hiring a full-time caregiver.
But I refused to leave him in someone else’s hands.
Every morning, I helped him get dressed.
In the evenings, I pushed his wheelchair through the garden.
When he couldn’t sleep, we sat in the kitchen drinking tea until sunrise.
I wasn’t staying beside him because of the house anymore.