“And in the meantime, Ellie seems to have decided she needs a grandfather.”
Walter cried.
He moved into our basement that fall.
And for the final four years of his life, Walter became something he and Margaret had once believed he would never be.
Family.
Ellie began calling him Grandpa Walt.
He picked her up from school.
Attended her recitals.
Sat at our kitchen table for ordinary dinners.
Helped with homework.
Told endless stories about Maple Street.
And together, we finished Margaret’s list.
We found the remaining children we could.
Walter wrote letters.
Some wrote back.
One man, now in his forties and living in Oregon, actually flew across the country just to meet Walter.
He wanted to hear Margaret’s message from Walter himself.
You were loved.
It was real.
It mattered.
Walter died two summers ago.
Peacefully.
In his sleep.
In the basement of my house.
His list was finished.
