For a moment, she looked relieved.
Then her expression changed.
“Did she show you the original papers?”
“Some of them.”
Mrs. Wilson closed her eyes.
“Good. Thank goodness.”
I leaned forward.
“Mrs. Wilson, why didn't you tell me what was happening when Alex first started visiting?”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Because I was lonely, sweetheart.”
Her voice cracked.
“That's the embarrassing truth.”
I shook my head.
“There's nothing embarrassing about being lonely.”
She stared at her hands.
After her husband, George, died six years earlier, Mrs. Wilson had tried to keep busy.
She attended church.
Knitted blankets for newborns.
Volunteered at the local library.
But age had gradually narrowed her world.
Her knees hurt.
Her friends stopped driving.
Some passed away.
Others moved closer to their children.
And although I visited regularly, I had my own work and responsibilities.
Then Alex appeared.
“He brought me a parcel,” she whispered. “And he noticed the photograph of George on my hallway table.”
