I stopped to help a woman who was dy//ing on the side of the road and lost my job because I arrived late, but when I returned to collect my things from my desk, my entire life was about to change.

I couldn’t respond.

Then she added another requirement.

“And there’s another condition.”

“What?”

“You do not invest a single dollar in a company until you have met at least one ordinary employee.”

I smiled.

“That I can do.”

Eleanor gestured toward the agreement.

“So?”

I studied it.

I thought about my daughters, the uncertain morning when I’d lost my job, and every car that had passed Eleanor on Route 18.

I picked up the pen.

But before I could sign, Eleanor stopped me.

“One more thing.”

She reached into her handbag and removed an old envelope.

My name was handwritten across the front.

Not Christopher Bennett.

Christopher Vale.

My heart seemed to stop.

“Where did you get that?”

Eleanor’s voice softened.

“Your father gave it to me twenty-six years ago.”

Part 8 — The Letter From My Father

For several seconds, I couldn’t move.

The envelope had yellowed with age, and its corners were worn.