Dear Grandson Adam, how are you? I hope you are well. I wonder how you look like and how much do you have of your mother. I learned about your father’s death a few months ago, and since then I have been trying hard to get to you. Your father disconnected all available modes of communication from me after your mother died. He took you and returned to America and never contacted me again. I tried to get a hold of him often, but he would not even speak over the phone. I do not blame him at all for life sometimes provides such hardships one cannot bear.
It is awkward of me to ask, but you are the only family I have left now. I am over eighty years old and I lastly hope to meet you, kiss you, and tell you about your mother, which I’m sure you would love to hear. I have lived in Scotland all of my married life; now I am back to my native country, Pakistan, in the house of our ancestors, and I will live here till my death. It is a small village in Gilgit, Baltistan. Also, my health does not allow me to travel much.
Please, my dear grandson, come and visit me. I have many of your mother’s memories and I cannot wait to share them with you.
I am attaching my address and a travel guide’s number along with some details. He will guide you to my place. Waiting for you.
Hugs and kisses, Your grandmother,
A strong wave of uncertainty rushed through Adam’s blood, throwing the letter straight into the bin, he sat back on his couch and placed both of his hands over his face. He could feel the moist morning air hitting the thick glass and hear the muffled sounds of his dog’s musings. He turned his face towards Wild and said, “There must be a reason why father cut her off. Could a sensible man like dad do such a thing?” He asked; it wagged its tail in affirmative.
“I’m not going anywhere, not at all—travelling across the oceans to meet her, just because that’s what she wants…. Besides, I need to work on the project I badly wanted to do. I am not even sure if Tanzeela K. Hassan she really is my grandmother,” he said and within seconds contradicted his own thoughts, “what if she is? What if she knows things I have missed in my life?” He said and peeked inside the box he had received from Mark’s office. There were several papers cluttered within—his father’s will, his business papers, some photographs…
… And letters.
He instantly recognised them. The handwriting on the letters was exactly the same as the one he had received from Mark—the letter he had just read. There were a lot, at least fifty. Some were old, others were relatively new, all of them short and precise, all written with the same request:
Let me see my grandson.

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