Part 2
The lawyer, Mr. Harlan, sat down in my living room with a gentle but serious expression. He placed the wooden box on the coffee table between us.
“Thomas was my client for over forty years,” he began. “He came to me just six months after you left for college. He was heartbroken, but he made a decision that day — he would build a life that could one day take care of you, even if you never came back.”
My hands trembled as I opened the box.
Inside were dozens of handwritten letters, neatly bundled by year. The first one was dated 1968 — the year I left. It read:
“My dearest Eleanor, Today you left, and I felt like the world ended. But I refuse to let this be the end of us. I will work hard. I will build something. And if God ever brings you back to me, I will be ready to take care of you the way I always wanted to.”
There were photos too — old ones of us as teenagers, and newer ones. Thomas had somehow found pictures of me over the decades: my nursing graduation, moments from my career, even a photo of me at my mother’s funeral.
Continued on the next page
