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As I walked home one freezing day, I
stumbled on a wallet someone had
lost in the street. I picked it up and
looked inside to find some
identification so I could call the
owner. But the wallet contained only
three dollars and a crumpled letter
that looked as if it had been in there
for years.
The envelope was worn and the only
thing that was legible on it was the
return address. I started to open the
letter, hoping to find some clue. Then
I saw the dateline–1924. The letter
had been written almost 60 years
ago.
It was written in a beautiful
feminine handwriting on powder
blue stationery with a little flower
in the left-hand corner. It was a
“Dear John” letter that told the
recipient, whose name appeared to
be Michael, that the writer could not
see him anymore because her mother
forbade it. Even so, she wrote that
she would always love him.
It was signed, Hannah.
It was a beautiful letter, but there
was no way except for the name
Michael, that the owner could be
identified. Maybe if I called
information, the operator could find
a phone listing for the address on
the envelope.
“Operator,” I began, “this is an
unusual request. I’m trying to find
the owner of a wallet that I found. Is
there anyway you can tell me if there
is a phone number for an address
that was on an envelope in the
wallet?”
She suggested I speak with her
supervisor, who hesitated for a
moment then said, “Well, there is a
phone listing at that address, but I
can’t give you the number.” She said,
as a courtesy, she would call that
number, explain my story and would
ask them if they wanted her to
connect me.
I waited a few minutes and then she
was back on the line. “I have a party
who will speak with you.”
I asked the woman on the other end
of the line if she knew anyone by the
name of Hannah. She gasped, “Oh!
We bought this house from a family
who had a daughter named Hannah.
But that was 30 years ago!”
“Would you know where that family
could be located now?” I asked.
“I remember that Hannah had to
place her mother in a nursing home
some years ago,” the woman said.
“Maybe if you got in touch with them
they might be able to track down the
daughter.”
She gave me the name of the nursing
home and I called the number. They
told me the old lady had passed
away some years ago but they did
have a phone number for where they
thought the daughter might be living.
I thanked them and phoned. The
woman who answered explained that
Hannah herself was now living in a
nursing home.
This whole thing was stupid, I
thought to myself. Why was I making
such a big deal over finding the
owner of a wallet that had only
three dollars and a letter that was
almost 60 years old?
Nevertheless, I called the nursing
home in which Hannah was supposed
to be living and the man who
answered the phone told me, “Yes,
Hannah is staying with us.”
Even though it was already 10 p.m., I
asked if I could come by to see her.
“Well,” he said hesitatingly, “if you
want to take a chance, she might be
in the day room watching
television.”
I thanked him and drove over to the
nursing home. The night nurse and a
guard greeted me at the door. We
went up to the third floor of the
large building. In the day room, the
nurse introduced me to Hannah.
She was a sweet, silver-haired
oldtimer with a warm smile and a
twinkle in her eye. I told her about
finding the wallet and showed her
the letter. The second she saw the
powder blue envelope with that little
flower on the left, she took a deep
breath and said, “Young man, this
letter was the last contact I ever had
with Michael.”
She looked away for a moment deep
in thought and then said softly, “I
loved him very much. But I was only
16 at the time and my mother felt I
was too young. Oh, he was so
handsome. He looked like Sean
Connery, the actor.”
“Yes,” she continued. “Michael
Goldstein was a wonderful person. If
you should find him, tell him I think
of him often. And,” she hesitated for
a moment, almost biting her lip, “tell
him I still love him. You know,” she
said smiling as tears began to well
up in her eyes, “I never did marry. I
guess no one ever matched up to
Michael…”
I thanked Hannah and said goodbye.
I took the elevator to the first floor
and as I stood by the door, the
guard there asked, “Was the old lady
able to help you?”
I told him she had given me a lead.
“At least I have a last name. But I
think I’ll let it go for a while. I spent
almost the whole day trying to find
the owner of this wallet.”
I had taken out the wallet, which
was a simple brown leather case
with red lacing on the side. When the
guard saw it, he said, “Hey, wait a
minute! That’s Mr. Goldstein’s
wallet. I’d know it anywhere with
that bright red lacing. He’s always
losing that wallet. I must have found
it in the halls at least three times.”
“Who’s Mr. Goldstein?” I asked as
my hand began to shake.
“He’s one of the oldtimers on the 8th
floor. That’s Mike Goldstein’s wallet
for sure. He must have lost it on one
of his walks.” I thanked the guard
and quickly ran back to the nurse’s
office. I told her what the guard had
said. We went back to the elevator
and got on. I prayed that Mr.
Goldstein would be up.
On the eighth floor, the floor nurse
said, “I think he’s still in the day
room. He likes to read at night. He’s
a darling old man.”
We went to the only room that had
any lights on and there was a man
reading a book. The nurse went over
to him and asked if he had lost his
wallet. Mr. Goldstein looked up with
surprise, put his hand in his back
pocket and said, “Oh, it is missing!”
“This kind gentleman found a wallet
and we wondered if it could be
yours?”
I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet
and the second he saw it, he smiled
with relief and said, “Yes, that’s it!
It must have dropped out of my
pocket this afternoon. I want to give
you a reward.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “But I have
to tell you something. I read the
letter in the hope of finding out who
owned the wallet.”
The smile on his face suddenly
disappeared. “You read that letter?”
“Not only did I read it, I think I
know where Hannah is.”
He suddenly grew pale. “Hannah?
You know where she is? How is she?
Is she still as pretty as she was?
Please, please tell me,” he begged.
“She’s fine…just as pretty as when
you knew her.” I said softly.
The old man smiled with anticipation
and asked, “Could you tell me where
she is? I want to call her tomorrow.”
He grabbed my hand and said, “You
know something, Mister? I was so in
love with that girl that when that
letter came, my life literally ended. I
never married. I guess I’ve always
loved her.”
“Mr. Goldstein,” I said, “Come with
me.”
We took the elevator down to the
third floor. The hallways were
darkened and only one or two little
night-lights lit our way to the day
room where Hannah was sitting
alone watching the television. The
nurse walked over to her.
“Hannah,” she said softly, pointing
to Michael, who was waiting with me
in the doorway. “Do you know this
man?”
She adjusted her glasses, looked for
a moment, but didn’t say a word.
Michael said softly, almost in a
whisper, “Hannah, it’s Michael. Do
you remember me?”
She gasped, “Michael! I don’t believe
it! Michael! It’s you! My Michael!”
He walked slowly towards her and
they embraced. The nurse and I left
with tears streaming down our
faces.
“See,” I said. “See how the Good
Lord works! If it’s meant to be, it
will be.”
About three weeks later I got a call
at my office from the nursing home.
“Can you break away on Sunday to
attend a wedding ? Michael and
Hannah are going to tie the knot!”
It was a beautiful wedding with all
the people at the nursing home
dressed up to join in the celebration.
Hannah wore a light beige dress and
looked beautiful. Michael wore a
dark blue suit and stood tall. They
made me their best man.
The hospital gave them their own
room and if you ever wanted to see
a 76-year-old bride and a 79-year-
old groom acting like two teenagers,
you had to see this couple.
A perfect ending for a love affair
that had lasted nearly 60 years.
stumbled on a wallet someone had
lost in the street. I picked it up and
looked inside to find some
identification so I could call the
owner. But the wallet contained only
three dollars and a crumpled letter
that looked as if it had been in there
for years.
The envelope was worn and the only
thing that was legible on it was the
return address. I started to open the
letter, hoping to find some clue. Then
I saw the dateline–1924. The letter
had been written almost 60 years
ago.
It was written in a beautiful
feminine handwriting on powder
blue stationery with a little flower
in the left-hand corner. It was a
“Dear John” letter that told the
recipient, whose name appeared to
be Michael, that the writer could not
see him anymore because her mother
forbade it. Even so, she wrote that
she would always love him.
It was signed, Hannah.
It was a beautiful letter, but there
was no way except for the name
Michael, that the owner could be
identified. Maybe if I called
information, the operator could find
a phone listing for the address on
the envelope.
“Operator,” I began, “this is an
unusual request. I’m trying to find
the owner of a wallet that I found. Is
there anyway you can tell me if there
is a phone number for an address
that was on an envelope in the
wallet?”
She suggested I speak with her
supervisor, who hesitated for a
moment then said, “Well, there is a
phone listing at that address, but I
can’t give you the number.” She said,
as a courtesy, she would call that
number, explain my story and would
ask them if they wanted her to
connect me.
I waited a few minutes and then she
was back on the line. “I have a party
who will speak with you.”
I asked the woman on the other end
of the line if she knew anyone by the
name of Hannah. She gasped, “Oh!
We bought this house from a family
who had a daughter named Hannah.
But that was 30 years ago!”
“Would you know where that family
could be located now?” I asked.
“I remember that Hannah had to
place her mother in a nursing home
some years ago,” the woman said.
“Maybe if you got in touch with them
they might be able to track down the
daughter.”
She gave me the name of the nursing
home and I called the number. They
told me the old lady had passed
away some years ago but they did
have a phone number for where they
thought the daughter might be living.
I thanked them and phoned. The
woman who answered explained that
Hannah herself was now living in a
nursing home.
This whole thing was stupid, I
thought to myself. Why was I making
such a big deal over finding the
owner of a wallet that had only
three dollars and a letter that was
almost 60 years old?
Nevertheless, I called the nursing
home in which Hannah was supposed
to be living and the man who
answered the phone told me, “Yes,
Hannah is staying with us.”
Even though it was already 10 p.m., I
asked if I could come by to see her.
“Well,” he said hesitatingly, “if you
want to take a chance, she might be
in the day room watching
television.”
I thanked him and drove over to the
nursing home. The night nurse and a
guard greeted me at the door. We
went up to the third floor of the
large building. In the day room, the
nurse introduced me to Hannah.
She was a sweet, silver-haired
oldtimer with a warm smile and a
twinkle in her eye. I told her about
finding the wallet and showed her
the letter. The second she saw the
powder blue envelope with that little
flower on the left, she took a deep
breath and said, “Young man, this
letter was the last contact I ever had
with Michael.”
She looked away for a moment deep
in thought and then said softly, “I
loved him very much. But I was only
16 at the time and my mother felt I
was too young. Oh, he was so
handsome. He looked like Sean
Connery, the actor.”
“Yes,” she continued. “Michael
Goldstein was a wonderful person. If
you should find him, tell him I think
of him often. And,” she hesitated for
a moment, almost biting her lip, “tell
him I still love him. You know,” she
said smiling as tears began to well
up in her eyes, “I never did marry. I
guess no one ever matched up to
Michael…”
I thanked Hannah and said goodbye.
I took the elevator to the first floor
and as I stood by the door, the
guard there asked, “Was the old lady
able to help you?”
I told him she had given me a lead.
“At least I have a last name. But I
think I’ll let it go for a while. I spent
almost the whole day trying to find
the owner of this wallet.”
I had taken out the wallet, which
was a simple brown leather case
with red lacing on the side. When the
guard saw it, he said, “Hey, wait a
minute! That’s Mr. Goldstein’s
wallet. I’d know it anywhere with
that bright red lacing. He’s always
losing that wallet. I must have found
it in the halls at least three times.”
“Who’s Mr. Goldstein?” I asked as
my hand began to shake.
“He’s one of the oldtimers on the 8th
floor. That’s Mike Goldstein’s wallet
for sure. He must have lost it on one
of his walks.” I thanked the guard
and quickly ran back to the nurse’s
office. I told her what the guard had
said. We went back to the elevator
and got on. I prayed that Mr.
Goldstein would be up.
On the eighth floor, the floor nurse
said, “I think he’s still in the day
room. He likes to read at night. He’s
a darling old man.”
We went to the only room that had
any lights on and there was a man
reading a book. The nurse went over
to him and asked if he had lost his
wallet. Mr. Goldstein looked up with
surprise, put his hand in his back
pocket and said, “Oh, it is missing!”
“This kind gentleman found a wallet
and we wondered if it could be
yours?”
I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet
and the second he saw it, he smiled
with relief and said, “Yes, that’s it!
It must have dropped out of my
pocket this afternoon. I want to give
you a reward.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “But I have
to tell you something. I read the
letter in the hope of finding out who
owned the wallet.”
The smile on his face suddenly
disappeared. “You read that letter?”
“Not only did I read it, I think I
know where Hannah is.”
He suddenly grew pale. “Hannah?
You know where she is? How is she?
Is she still as pretty as she was?
Please, please tell me,” he begged.
“She’s fine…just as pretty as when
you knew her.” I said softly.
The old man smiled with anticipation
and asked, “Could you tell me where
she is? I want to call her tomorrow.”
He grabbed my hand and said, “You
know something, Mister? I was so in
love with that girl that when that
letter came, my life literally ended. I
never married. I guess I’ve always
loved her.”
“Mr. Goldstein,” I said, “Come with
me.”
We took the elevator down to the
third floor. The hallways were
darkened and only one or two little
night-lights lit our way to the day
room where Hannah was sitting
alone watching the television. The
nurse walked over to her.
“Hannah,” she said softly, pointing
to Michael, who was waiting with me
in the doorway. “Do you know this
man?”
She adjusted her glasses, looked for
a moment, but didn’t say a word.
Michael said softly, almost in a
whisper, “Hannah, it’s Michael. Do
you remember me?”
She gasped, “Michael! I don’t believe
it! Michael! It’s you! My Michael!”
He walked slowly towards her and
they embraced. The nurse and I left
with tears streaming down our
faces.
“See,” I said. “See how the Good
Lord works! If it’s meant to be, it
will be.”
About three weeks later I got a call
at my office from the nursing home.
“Can you break away on Sunday to
attend a wedding ? Michael and
Hannah are going to tie the knot!”
It was a beautiful wedding with all
the people at the nursing home
dressed up to join in the celebration.
Hannah wore a light beige dress and
looked beautiful. Michael wore a
dark blue suit and stood tall. They
made me their best man.
The hospital gave them their own
room and if you ever wanted to see
a 76-year-old bride and a 79-year-
old groom acting like two teenagers,
you had to see this couple.
A perfect ending for a love affair
that had lasted nearly 60 years.
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