“Because she was afraid the doctor would ask questions.”
“What questions?”
My mother’s answer came carefully.
“About the money she has been sending out of the country.”
I stared at Maya.
She looked away.
My mother continued.
“She has her own secrets, David. Before you destroy this family, perhaps you should find out who your wife has been paying every month.”
Then the call ended.
For several seconds, neither Maya nor I spoke.
The machines beside her bed continued their soft electronic rhythm.
Finally, I asked, “Is that true?”
Maya’s eyes remained fixed on the blanket.
“Yes.”
The single word altered the air between us.
“Who have you been sending money to?”
“My mother.”
I knew almost nothing about Maya’s mother.
They had been estranged for years. Maya had told me that she grew up moving between relatives in the Philippines after her father disappeared. She rarely spoke of those years. When I had asked whether her mother would attend our wedding, Maya said only that it was better if she didn’t.
“How much?”
“Usually five hundred dollars. Sometimes more.”
“From where?”
“My personal savings.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew how it would look.”
I struggled to keep my voice level.
“How would it look?”
“Like I was doing the same thing you were doing.”
The answer stopped me.
Maya swallowed.
“My mother contacted me when I was four months pregnant. She said she was ill. I didn’t believe her at first. Then she sent medical records.”
“What kind of illness?”
“Kidney disease.”
“Have you spoken to her doctor?”
“No.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No.”
“Maya.”
“I know.”
There was shame in her voice, but also something else—fear.
“She asked me not to tell anyone,” Maya said. “She said the people caring for her would stop helping if they thought I had a wealthy husband.”
“Who are the people caring for her?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve been sending money to people you don’t know?”
“To an account she gave me.”
“What is the name on the account?”
Maya looked at me.
“Hudson Family Consulting.”
