At first, I thought she might be at a local bed-and-breakfast or staying with a friend. But days turned into weeks, and it became clear she had gone far. Her phone was disconnected, and no one—not even her children—knew where she was.
Lisa and David were frantic. They showed up constantly, demanding answers. “This isn’t like her!” Lisa wailed, while David paced my living room. “She’s punishing us, isn’t she?”
I shrugged, playing dumb. Margaret had trusted me with her secret, and I wasn’t about to betray her.
Then, one morning, a postcard arrived in my mailbox. The photo on the front was of a stunning mountain range, snowcapped peaks under a brilliant sky. The handwriting on the back was unmistakably Margaret’s:
“Dear Dorothy,
I’m finally breathing fresh air. Wish you were here—but don’t tell the vultures. I’ll write again soon.
Love, Margaret.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Margaret wasn’t just gone—she was free.
When Margaret finally returned months later, she looked like a new woman. Her cheeks were rosy, her step lighter, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Don’t just stand there gawking, Dorothy,” she said, breezing through my door with a small suitcase. “Put the kettle on. I’ve got stories to tell.”
She regaled me with tales of gondola rides in Venice, dancing in a village square, and sipping wine in a French vineyard. For the first time in years, she seemed truly alive.
A few days later, Margaret passed away peacefully in her sleep, a serene smile on her face.
At the will reading, Lisa and David were eager, expecting to inherit her properties. But the lawyer had a surprise for them:
“The colonial house and bungalow have both been sold,” he announced.
“What?!” Lisa shrieked, while David fumed. “What about the money?” they demanded.
The lawyer opened a letter from Margaret:
“To my beloved family,
Thank you for reminding me that life is short and happiness is meant to be lived, not hoarded. The houses are gone, but the memories I made are priceless. Dorothy, I’ve left the remainder of my estate to you. Use it to see the world—live boldly, as I did.
Love, Margaret.”
The room erupted into chaos, but I didn’t care. Margaret’s legacy wasn’t the houses or money—it was the reminder to live fully. A month later, I boarded a plane to Paris with Margaret’s photo album tucked in my bag.
As I soared above the clouds, I raised a tiny cup of champagne. “This one’s for you, Margaret.”