At 78, I sold everything—my apartment, truck, even my vinyl collection. Elizabeth’s letter arrived between mundane mail: “I’ve been thinking of you.” That one line pulled me back decades. We exchanged letters, remembering old times—her garden, her bad coffee, our laughter. When she sent her address, I sold everything and flew to see her.
On the flight, I had a mild heart attack; the plane diverted to Bozeman. In the hospital, nurse Lauren cared for me. As I recovered, I told her about Elizabeth. Lauren shared her own heartbreak from loss, and in solidarity, offered to drive me to Elizabeth.
When we arrived, it wasn’t Elizabeth who greeted me—it was her sister, Susan. Elizabeth had died last year. Susan had kept the letters and, lonely, invited me. Devastated, I visited Elizabeth’s grave, realizing I’d sacrificed everything for a dream that was already gone. Lauren stood by me, and when she later worked at the nursing home, I bought back Elizabeth’s house—and asked Susan to live with me.
Lauren moved in too. We spend our evenings in the garden—playing chess, watching the sky. After all the loss and mistakes, I found home again by opening my heart and trusting fate.