My Best Friend Margaret and Her Last Big Adventure
I’m Dorothy, 80 years old, and let me tell you about the wildest thing my best friend Margaret ever did.
Margaret was 83, sharp as a tack, and tougher than old boots. She lived her life exactly the way she wanted—and heaven help anyone who tried to tell her otherwise. She didn’t take orders from anyone, not even her own kids. But one day, Margaret did something that left everyone stunned.
She vanished.
But let me start from the beginning.
Margaret and I had been best friends for over 40 years. She was fiery, funny, and full of sass. “You’re my partner in crime,” she used to say to me with a wink. We never really caused any trouble—unless you count sneaking extra pastries or spending hours gossiping over coffee. Her little bungalow was always full of flowers, and she also owned a beautiful colonial-style house that her late husband, Tom, had loved dearly.
After Tom died about 20 years ago, Margaret rented out that big house to help with her bills. “Tom would’ve hated it,” she’d say with a grin. “But a lady’s gotta live, right?”
Margaret was fiercely independent. She never asked for help—not from anyone, especially not from her kids, Lisa and David.
“Dorothy,” she’d say, wagging her finger at me, “a woman’s best friend is her independence—right after coffee and a good slice of pie.”
But last year, her health started slipping. I began running errands for her, and her kids suddenly started showing up more. At first, I thought, Oh, how nice—they’re finally helping out. But it didn’t take long before I realized what was really going on.
They weren’t there out of love. They were circling—like vultures.
Lisa always looked like she was headed to brunch at some fancy country club, and she never stopped talking about that colonial house.
“It’s such a shame,” she’d sigh. “That house could be perfect for my family.”
David was no better. He’d show up with spreadsheets and talk like he was her personal banker. “Mom,” he’d say, “if you sell the house, you could really help yourself. Or… help us. Think about it.”
Margaret wasn’t fooled for one second. “I’ll do what I want with my houses when I’m good and ready,” she snapped. “And stop acting like I’m about to drop dead!”
Even the grandkids were getting in on it. Lisa’s daughter, Jessica, baked brownies and cooed, “Grandma, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we lived in that big house?” Meanwhile, David’s son, Kyle, just blurted out, “Grandma, just give it to Dad.”
Margaret had had it.
One afternoon, she overheard Lisa and David arguing—in her own living room—about who should get the colonial house.
She burst in and barked, “You’d think I was already six feet under, the way you two are fighting over my stuff!”
“Mom, we’re just trying to help—” Lisa started, but Margaret cut her off with a death glare.
“If you want to help, wash the dishes. Otherwise, zip it.”
Later that day, we sat in her kitchen, drinking tea. Margaret shook her head.
“They’re shameless, Dorothy. Absolutely shameless.”
I tried to comfort her. “They’ll calm down eventually.”
She gave me that mischievous smirk of hers. “Don’t count on it. But don’t worry—I’ve got a plan.”
When I asked her what she meant, she just sipped her tea and said, “You’ll see.”
And then, a week later, she disappeared.
Poof. Gone.
No warning. No goodbye. All she left behind was a note—left on my doorstep.
“Dear Dorothy,
Don’t worry about me. I’m safe and just need some time to myself. Keep an eye on the vultures for me. I’ll be back when I’m ready.
Love, Margaret.”
At first, I thought maybe she was staying at a cozy inn nearby or visiting an old friend. But as the days turned into weeks, and then months, it became clear: Margaret was gone gone.
Her phone was disconnected. Her kids had no idea where she was.
Lisa came pounding on my door almost every day.
“This isn’t like her!” she cried. “Where could she be?”
David looked angry and nervous. “She’s doing this to punish us. Isn’t she?”
I just shrugged. I wasn’t about to spill the beans. Margaret had trusted me, and I wasn’t going to let her down.
Then one morning, a postcard landed in my mailbox. The picture showed a snowcapped mountain range, sparkling under a bright blue sky.
On the back, in her unmistakable handwriting, it said:
“Dear Dorothy,
I’m finally breathing fresh air. Wish you were here—but don’t tell the vultures. I’ll write again soon.
Love, Margaret.”
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my coffee. She wasn’t hiding—she was living.
Months passed. And then one sunny morning, Margaret walked back into my house looking ten years younger. Cheeks rosy, eyes sparkling, suitcase in hand.
“Don’t just stand there gawking, Dorothy,” she said. “Put the kettle on. I’ve got stories to tell.”
And boy, did she ever. She rode gondolas in Venice, danced in little village squares, and drank wine in French vineyards. She had gone off and lived the life everyone thought was behind her.
A few days later, Margaret passed away peacefully in her sleep. She looked calm and content, with a smile on her face.
At the will reading, Lisa and David were practically rubbing their hands together.
The lawyer looked at them and said, “The colonial house and the bungalow have been sold.”
“What?!” Lisa shrieked.
“What about the money?” David demanded.
The lawyer opened a letter from Margaret. I’ll never forget the words:
“To my beloved family,
Thank you for reminding me that life is short and happiness is meant to be lived, not hoarded. The houses are gone, but the memories I made are priceless.
Dorothy, I’ve left the remainder of my estate to you. Use it to see the world—live boldly, as I did.
Love, Margaret.”
The room exploded. Lisa was crying. David was fuming.
But me? I just sat there, smiling.
Margaret didn’t leave behind a fortune. She left behind something better—a reminder that life is meant to be lived, not waited on.
One month later, I boarded a plane to Paris, Margaret’s photo album tucked safely in my bag. As the plane took off and we soared above the clouds, I raised a little plastic cup of champagne.
“This one’s for you, Margaret,” I whispered.
So, what did you think of Margaret’s final move? Let me know in the comments—I’d love to hear your thoughts!