I called the old high school the next morning, my voice shaking.
“Hi, I know this sounds strange, but I’m trying to find an alumnus from 60 years ago. His name is Henry.”
“Sweetheart,” the woman on the phone said, “we don’t usually give out that information.”
“Please,” I whispered. “My grandmother is dying. She just wants to see him one more time.”
The line went quiet.
“Let me see what I can do.”
By the afternoon, I had a list of three possible addresses, two phone numbers, and one distant cousin in Ohio who might know something.
I called every single one.
“I’m sorry, wrong Henry.”
“Haven’t heard that name in years.”
“He moved away decades ago, honey. Could be anywhere.”
I kept dialing until my fingers ached.
That evening, my mother walked into the hospital room and saw the notebook in my lap. Her face changed instantly.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m helping Grandma,” I said quietly.
“Helping her with what?”
“She told me about Henry. I’m going to find him.”
My mother’s hands froze on the strap of her purse.
“You’re going to do what?”
“Find him, Mom. She wants one last dance.”
“Absolutely not.”
I looked up, stunned. “What do you mean, not?”
“I mean, drop it. Right now.”
