Poor Older Lady Didn’t Let Anyone Into Her Home for 26 Years Until I Set Foot Inside

“I’m a grandmother, and I never knew.”

“Would you want to try to meet them?” I asked gently.

Mrs. Halloway nodded, tears still streaming. “I’m dying, Dori.

The doctors told me yesterday. Maybe a few weeks left. I can’t fix the past, but maybe…

maybe I can at least try to say I’m sorry.”

The next week, I drove Mrs. Halloway to her daughter’s house in a wheelchair I’d rented from the hospital. She was trembling so badly I thought she might collapse before we even reached the front door.

Her daughter, Susan, answered again.

The anger was still there, flashing in her eyes like lightning.

“How dare you bring her here?” Susan said coldly.

But then her own daughter appeared at the door. A beautiful teenager with Mrs. Halloway’s musical eyes and Susan’s strong jaw.

“Mom, who’s this?” the girl asked, looking curiously at Mrs.

Halloway.

And in that frozen moment, three generations of women stood staring at each other across 26 years of silence and pain.

At that point, Susan’s rage cracked, just a little. Maybe it was seeing her daughter’s innocent curiosity, or maybe it was seeing how frail and small Mrs. Halloway looked in that wheelchair.

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