I worked longer hours, took extra jobs, cut every possible expense.
Still, it wasn’t enough.
I was drowning again.
Then one morning, as I sat at my desk staring at another overdue notice, a man walked into my office.
Dressed in a charcoal suit, he approached my cubicle.
“Are you Nora?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied cautiously.
For illustrative purposes only
He placed a small, worn box on my desk.
“My name is Carter. I represent the estate of Arthur.”
The name hit me instantly.
The man from that rainy night—the one I had never seen again, but never forgotten.
“He spent years trying to find you,” Carter explained. “He asked me to deliver this personally.”
My hands trembled as I opened the box.
Inside was a worn leather notebook.
I flipped it open.
The first entry stopped me cold:
“Nov. 12, 1998 — Girl named Nora. Two babies. Gave me $10. Don’t forget this.”
My vision blurred.
Page after page, I saw entries—different dates, different people—but my name appeared again and again.
“Never forget Nora.”
