One afternoon, I asked why no one ever visited her. She hesitated, then said quietly, “Some people spend their lives building walls. In the end, those walls hold very well.”
Days passed. Daniel gradually regained strength. Margaret, however, seemed to fade.
The morning she was moved out of the ward, she asked me to lean closer. Her hand shook as she reached beneath her pillow and placed something in my palm—an old, worn banknote, creased and faded, worth almost nothing.
I tried to refuse, but she curled my fingers around it and met my eyes.
“Promise you won’t ignore what I’m about to tell you,” she said.
Confused, I nodded.
“That bill once saved my life,” she murmured. “And soon, it may change yours—but only if you’re brave enough to look into my name.”
Before I could ask what she meant, a nurse arrived to wheel her away, leaving me standing there, staring at the banknote trembling in my hand.
All day, her words replayed in my head. Look into my name. It sounded theatrical, almost unreal, yet her certainty unsettled me. That night, after Daniel fell asleep, I searched the hospital’s family-access records. Margaret Hale. Seventy-eight years old. Diagnosed with heart failure.
The name meant nothing to me.
The following evening at home, I examined the banknote again. It was decades old, no longer usable. Faintly written on the back was an address and a date from more than forty years earlier. Curiosity overcame exhaustion.
A week after Daniel was discharged, I drove to that address.
“She’s my aunt,” he said slowly. “Or… she was. We lost touch years ago.”
Over coffee, he explained everything. Margaret had once owned a small manufacturing business that eventually grew into a multimillion-dollar company. After a painful family conflict, she walked away completely, cutting all ties. The company prospered without her, and the family assumed she was wealthy, proud, and didn’t need them anymore.
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