The first letter was dated three weeks after my accident.
It came from Dr. Charles Rowan.
My father's hands trembled as he unfolded it.
"Rowan offered to pay for your lifelong care," he explained. "Specialists. Equipment. Education. Anything you needed."
I remembered the expensive schools.
The specialized tutors.
The treatment programs my parents somehow afforded despite my father's reduced working hours.
I had always assumed the money came from savings.
"Did you accept it?" I whispered.
He nodded.
My stomach twisted.
"You let the man responsible for my blindness pay you to stay quiet?"
My father looked devastated.
"I convinced myself the money could give you opportunities you would otherwise lose."
"And what did he get?"
"Silence."
I sat down because my legs were trembling.
My father continued.
"There was supposed to be an investigation. But the hospital's original records were altered. The procedure was classified as emergency treatment, and the complications were attributed to the playground injury."
