All day long, his words echoed in my head. "Look for my name." It sounded theatrical, almost unreal, and yet his certainty unsettled me. That evening, after Daniel had fallen asleep, I consulted the hospital medical file. Margaret Hale. Seventy-eight years old. Diagnosis: heart failure.
The name meant nothing to me.
The next evening, at home, I examined the note again. It was decades old, unusable. On the back, an address and a date, more than forty years old, were barely legible. Curiosity overcame my fatigue.
One week after Daniel was discharged from the hospital, I went to this address.
It was a small house in a quiet neighborhood. I almost turned around, convinced I was pursuing a lost cause. But when I knocked, a man opened the door and froze when I mentioned Margaret Hale.
"That's my aunt," he said slowly. "Or... she was my aunt. We lost touch years ago."
Over coffee, he explained everything to her. Margaret had once owned a small manufacturing business that had grown into a multi-million dollar company. After a painful family conflict, she had left it all behind, severing all ties. The business had thrived without her, and her family had assumed she was wealthy, proud, and no longer needed them.
Read more on the next page >>
For more detailed instructions, please click the button below (>) and follow us on Facebook.
