The following year, I did exactly what she asked.
The properties were sold.
The hospice received the money.
And outside the building where I had met Eleanor, a small garden was created.
At its center stood a wooden bench.
A brass plaque was attached to it.
It read:
Eleanor Margaret Whitmore
She spent her final days teaching us that being loved is sometimes the greatest gift of all.
PART 11 — THE PHOTOGRAPH
Months later, I received a package from Mr. Whitmore.
Inside was a photograph from our wedding.
Eleanor was sitting in her white dress, holding up her hand and smiling at the camera.
Beside the photograph was a note.
“She wanted you to have the original.”
I placed it on my desk.
For the first time, I wasn’t looking at a photograph of a hospice patient.
I was looking at my aunt.
The woman who had spent decades regretting her decision.
