At 78, I sold all I owned—my apartment, my truck, even my beloved vinyl. Nothing mattered anymore.
Then came Elizabeth’s letter, tucked between bills, containing only:
“I’ve been thinking of you.”
That single sentence yanked me back decades.
Our letters followed—first short, then long—revealing memories of her garden, the old piano, and our shared laughter. When she finally sent her address, I sold everything and bought a one-way ticket.
On the flight, I suffered a heart attack. I awoke in a hospital in Bozeman: the plane had made an emergency landing. A nurse named Lauren cared for me. I learned I wasn’t to fly again. The doctors warned; I dismissed.
Lauren and I connected. She’d lost a child; I’d lost Elizabeth. One morning she brought car keys: she was leaving her job to help me.
We drove toward her address—only to arrive at a nursing home. Inside, I discovered Elizabeth had died the previous year. The person who greeted me wasn’t her, but her sister Susan. She’d answered the letter in Elizabeth’s stead.
Heartbreak and anger washed over me. At the cemetery, standing before Elizabeth’s gravestone, I whispered:
“I sold everything… for this. And she wasn’t even here to see it.”
But a quiet truth emerged: Susan, too, was lonely. She needed home—and so did I. I turned away from the grave, feeling both loss and something unexpected: possibility.
We returned to the city. I repurchased Elizabeth’s house. Susan hesitated to join me. I told her: “You’re not a burden. We both just wanted a home.” We embraced. Lauren joined us too.
Now, in that garden—playing chess, watching sunsets at twilight—I feel rooted again. Life didn’t follow my plans, but in losing everything, I gained more than I ever expected.