I believed life had offered me a final glimpse of happiness, however brief. Yet after I thought Margaret’s and my story had reached its end, she left behind a revelation that changed everything.
“Mom warned me you might faint when you read this.”
I believed life had offered me a final glimpse of happiness, however brief. Yet after I thought Margaret’s and my story had reached its end, she left behind a revelation that changed everything.
“Mom warned me you might faint when you read this.”
I broke the seal and unfolded a handwritten letter. One glance at its opening line left me so weak that I seized the church railing.
“Good Lord!”
Wade steadied me. “Are you okay?”
I stared at him in disbelief. “Your mother did WHAT?”
He managed a nervous smile. “She thought you’d say something like that.”
Even after her death, Margaret could astonish me. That’s quite an accomplishment when the man you’re surprising is a 63-year-old pastor. To understand her gift, though, you first need to know how we met again.
For 23 years, I’d served as pastor of a modest neighborhood church. Visiting patients with terminal illnesses at the local hospital was part of my regular routine. A few times each week, I sat with people who needed prayer, conversation, or simply someone willing to listen.
One Tuesday, Helen, a nurse, mentioned a newly admitted woman with stage-four cancer.
“She’s quite a character,” Helen said. “Yesterday, she told the doctor his handwriting looked like a spider had fallen into an ink bottle!”
I chuckled. “Sounds like someone I should meet.”
I entered the patient’s room and immediately froze. Age and illness had altered her appearance, but I knew those eyes and that smile. The woman lying before me was unmistakable.
“Margaret?”
She narrowed her eyes while examining my face, then suddenly erupted in delighted laughter.
“Wow! Tommy?! Is that you?! This can’t be real!”
I couldn’t move. Margaret, however, had no intention of allowing an awkward reunion.
“Well, don’t just stand there! Come hug me before I start charging admission.”
Laughing, I embraced the girl I’d loved 45 years earlier. Somehow, the decades between us briefly seemed to disappear.
Margaret had been my sweetheart in high school. We’d attended prom together, shared milkshakes, and confidently imagined a future side by side. I even promised to marry her; she teasingly said she might consider it once we were older.
Instead, we attended separate colleges. Our calls became less frequent until we eventually lost touch. Neither betrayed the other, and there was no dramatic breakup. Life simply moved us down different paths.
I later married Susan, a wonderful woman with whom I shared 30 happy years. She died six years before this reunion. Margaret, meanwhile, had married Kade, whom she loved deeply. Together they raised Wade, their son, before Kade passed away four years earlier.
We’d both experienced fulfilling marriages. Still, seeing Margaret again felt like opening a long-missing chapter of my past.
From then on, I visited her daily. We spent hours reminiscing, and despite the intravenous lines and the seriousness of her condition, her mischievous humor remained intact. Even in painful circumstances, she found reasons to smile.
One day, she wanted to know whether I still ruined toast.
“I’ve improved,” I assured her.
“Tommy, the last time you cooked for me, the smoke alarm begged for mercy.”
Her son, Wade, regularly joined our conversations. At 42, he worked as an accountant and clearly had inherited Margaret’s playful grin.
One afternoon, I asked what kind of career she’d pursued.
“Oh, I kept myself busy,” she said.
Wade snorted, earning a warning look from his mother.
“Don’t start.”
Curious, I asked, “What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” Margaret said quickly. “Tommy, remember when you fell into the punch bowl at prom?”
“I didn’t fall into it!”
“You wore enough punch home to prove otherwise!”
Wade laughed along. At the time, I failed to recognize how deliberately Margaret had changed the conversation. Her evasiveness would make sense much later.
Several weeks after our reunion, Margaret told me the doctors believed she had perhaps one week remaining. I sat speechless beside her hospital bed, struggling with the thought of losing her all over again.
She gripped my hand. “Oh, don’t look so sad, Tommy!”
“Margaret…”
“Remember how you promised to marry me when we were 17?”
I nodded, fighting back tears.
“Well, you’re 45 years late, mister. How about we finally do it?”
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