Tears streamed down his scarred face.
“He came for me.”
The room fell silent.
“The accident happened while he was driving home.”
My heart fractured.
“That truck ran the red light.”
I felt something inside me collapse.
For weeks afterward, I hated him.
I hated his face.
His voice.
His existence.
Every time I looked at him, I saw what my children had lost.
One day, unable to contain it anymore, I finally said the words that had been poisoning me.
“My children lost their father because of you.”
Michael lowered his head.
“I know.”
Nothing else.
No excuses.
No defense.
Only guilt.
Only grief.
For weeks, I carried that anger.
Then slowly, painfully, something changed.
Because the more I learned about David, the more I understood who he truly was.
David hadn’t been forced to help people.
He chose to.
Again and again.
Even when it cost him time.
Money.
Energy.
Even when it ultimately cost him his life.
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