When I finally finished the letter, there was one final paragraph.
“I don’t want you to remember me as a dying woman.
Remember me as your aunt.
Remember the wedding.
Remember how ridiculous I looked trying to walk down that hallway in a wedding dress.
And remember that for one afternoon, I got to be exactly what I always wanted to be.
Chosen.”
Underneath that word was another sentence.
“There is something else you deserve to know.”
My hands began trembling again.
“I left you my house.”
I looked up.
Mr. Whitmore was standing in the doorway.
“Your aunt owned three properties,” he said. “She left all three to you.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t want her money.”
He nodded.
“She knew you’d say that.”
Then he handed me another envelope.
“She left this specifically for that response.”
PART 10 — HER FINAL REQUEST
I opened it.
“Daniel,
If you don’t want the money, then don’t keep it.
Sell everything.
Give the money to the hospice where we met.
Build a small garden there.
Put a bench beneath a tree.
And put my name on it.
Not because I was wealthy.
Not because I was important.
But because everyone deserves one place where they feel remembered.”
I cried harder than I had since her funeral.
The following year, I did exactly what she asked.
The properties were sold.
The hospice received the money.
And outside the building where I had met Eleanor, a small garden was created.
At its center stood a wooden bench.
A brass plaque was attached to it.
It read:
Eleanor Margaret Whitmore
She spent her final days teaching us that being loved is sometimes the greatest gift of all.
PART 11 — THE PHOTOGRAPH
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