After his sudden death 18 months ago, I took on the job of sorting through my father's effects, both personal and professional. Among them were 34 boxes of papers.

Nightly, I'd pick a box and go through it, often in tears, trying to decide what to save and what to toss.

One night, I found a small, faded stationary box among the stacks of neatly labeled file folders. Inside lay an old bill and a stack of faded "get well" and "congratulations" cards. The bill was from a Chicago-area hospital. My grandmother's name was handwritten in script at the top.

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