By the time the lawyer finished reading, my jaw was slack.
Everything I believed I knew about my grandfather had just expanded into something more profound.
He opened the door cautiously, surprise flickering across his face when he saw us standing there. Inside, his wife, Marianne, made tea with trembling hands while my father explained what we had learned.
Harold sat quietly, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I never imagined,” he murmured. “After everything.”
When my mother gently asked about Lily, Harold’s composure finally cracked. He told us about the years of treatments, the endless tests, the mounting bills, and the constant fear. They had no insurance. Everything had been paid in cash.
“What your father did,” he said, his voice breaking, “he saved my child.”
From that moment on, something shifted.
Harold became a regular presence in our lives. He tended our garden, walked our dog, and slowly, awkwardly, became part of our family. When Lily finally received a match, we sat together in the hospital waiting room, hearts pounding with hope and fear.
The surgery was a success.
“My friend,” he said softly, “this belongs with you.”
It was my grandfather’s car. Continue reading…
