The house two doors down had always intrigued me. While the rest of the neighborhood kept perfect lawns, Mrs. Calloway’s place stood wild and free—much like the woman herself.
Our friendship started with tea on her porch. She’d tell me about Paris in the 60s, but clammed up when I asked about family. “That life is over,” she’d say.
Then came the day she studied me while I dusted her mantel. “You remind me of someone,” she murmured. I wish now I’d asked who.
After her passing, a lawyer appeared at my door with a letter that dropped my heart to my feet:
“I couldn’t tell you while I lived, but you’re my granddaughter. Your mother was my daughter.”
Turns out, my kindness to a lonely old woman had unknowingly reunited a broken family. Her $20 million estate came with one final note: “Use this to build the life we both deserved.”
Now her wild garden grows even wilder, and soon her home will host artists-in-residence—because some second chances arrive late, but bloom forever.
