For the rest of the day, Margaret's words echoed in my head. "Look for my name." It sounded dramatic, almost unreal, but something about her certainty unsettled me. That evening, after Daniel had fallen asleep, I consulted the medical records system accessible to family members. Margaret Hale. Seventy-eight years old. Diagnosis: heart failure.
That name meant nothing to me.
The following evening, at home, I examined the old banknote again. It was several decades old and no longer accepted in shops. On the back, an address and a date, more than forty years old, were barely scribbled. Curiosity overcame my fatigue.
A week later, after Daniel was discharged from the hospital, I went to that address.
It was a modest house in a quiet neighborhood. I almost turned back, convinced I was chasing a pipe dream. But a man opened the door when I knocked. He seemed surprised when I said Margaret Hale's name.
"That's my aunt," he said slowly. "Or... she was. We lost touch years ago."
Over coffee, he confessed the truth. Margaret had once owned a small manufacturing business that had grown into a multi-million dollar company. After a violent family argument, she had left it all behind, severing all ties. The business had thrived without her, and her family had assumed she had money, pride, and no need for it…
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