He had lost his job after missing too many days to drive me to appointments. Since then, he had been working two shifts at a warehouse across town, from five in the morning until late afternoon, then delivering groceries at night. He hadn’t slept more than five hours a night in months. That was why he came home exhausted and snapping. He wrote that he hid the bills because he didn’t want me worrying while I was still learning to live in the dark.

The thing he slid under the bed the night before was the newest bill, from my eye doctor. He wrote that he had no idea how he would keep paying, but that he would sell his truck, his tools, anything, before he let me stop treatment. The letter ended with one line. I would carry you for another hundred years, but I miss you seeing me. I read it four times.