He took a slow breath, as if steadying himself.“My name is Daniel Grey,” he said. “Margaret Grey was my mother.”The room tilted.“I—” My voice failed. “The woman on the porch?”He nodded. “She never stopped talking about you. Though she never knew your name.”
I stared at him, stunned. “She… talked about me?”Daniel smiled faintly. “She called you her angel with quiet feet. She said an angel fed her for three years and never once asked to be seen.”My knees weakened. I had to sit.“She was proud,” he continued softly. “But she was also stubborn. She refused help. Refused assisted living. Refused to tell me how bad things had gotten.” His voice wavered. “Until one day, she told me there was a child who made her feel human again.”He handed me the envelope.
nside was a letter. The paper was thin. The handwriting shaky but careful.
