But inside, something flickered. A quiet pride. A spark.
Three days later, it came.
A man in a suit knocked on their apartment door. Tasha’s mother frowned, drying her hands.
“Can I help you?”
The man smiled. “My name is Johnathan King. I’m Mr. Grantham’s attorney. May I speak with Tasha?”
Her mother’s eyes went wide. “What? Why?”
Tasha stepped forward cautiously. “It’s okay, Mama. I know who he’s talking about.”
The lawyer knelt down, face kind. “He asked me to deliver this.”
He handed Tasha an envelope.
Inside was a handwritten note.
“Dear Tasha,
You saved my life. Not just my body—but something deeper.
You reminded me what it means to hope. To care.
I lost my daughter four years ago. You have her eyes. Her courage.
I’ve included something small as thanks—but more importantly, I’d like to meet you again.
—R. Grantham”
At the bottom of the envelope was a cashier’s check.
For $50,000.
Tasha’s mother gasped so loudly the baby started crying.
