But he no longer dragged his foot.
He no longer needed a cane.
He was six feet tall, much taller than me.
He hugged me tightly.
The scent of men’s cologne and antiseptic clung to him.
I gently patted him on the back.
“Are you busy, son?” I asked as we parted.
“For you, Mom? I always have time,” he replied, leading me to the plush guest sofa in the corner.
“What’s the matter? It’s not like you to come to my office at this hour. You’re usually busy with financial reports in the director’s office.”
I sat down and placed the red briefcase on the coffee table.
Leo glanced at her, then looked into my eyes.
He was smart.
He could tell from the look on my face that something serious was going on.
“VIP patient?” Leo guessed.
“You could say that,” I replied. “But not VIP because of the money. Because of the past.”
Leo frowned.
“What do you mean?”
I pushed the red briefcase towards him.
“Read it. You’ll understand.”
Leo picked up the briefcase.
He opened it with the calm, professional movement of a doctor.
His gaze swept over the first line of patient data.
I watched his face change.
Calm at first.
Then his eyes widened slightly.
He clenched his jaw.
The hand holding the paper squeezed it tighter, wrinkling the edge.
He was silent for a long time, froze, staring at the printed name.
Mark Peterson.
A name he probably tried to erase from his memory, but which remained etched in him as a source of childhood trauma.
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