Driving home from a tuning job, I stopped for gas and dropped my wallet in the parking lot. Didn't notice until I got home.
Two hours later, a woman knocked on my door. She'd driven forty miles to return it. Everything untouched.
Inside the wallet was a motel notepad from 1983. On it, a phone number I'd scribbled from a pen pal named Margaret.
We wrote for years after my brother died. She was the only one who understood what it was like to lose half of a pair.
Eventually the letters stopped. I kept the number, though. Never called. Never threw it away.
After the stranger left, I picked up the phone. An old woman answered. It was her.
We talked for two hours. She said she'd always wondered if I would call. I said I'd always wondered if I could.
Now I drive to her town every other Sunday. She's a widow now. I'm a twin learning to live solo.
Some kindness starts a chain you never see coming. I'm just glad I finally answered.