The number printed on the paper was her husband’s full pension, plus ten years of interest.

She stared at the numbers, her hand rising to cover her mouth.

“Is this real?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the murmur of the room.

“It is completely real, Mrs. Gallagher,” I said, placing my hand over hers.

“The funds have been fully restored.”

She began to cry, the tears falling onto the paper check.

“He would have been so proud,” she said, looking up at the ceiling.

“He always said someone would make this right.”

Behind her, a long line of retired workers waited, their faces filled with a mixture of hope and disbelief.

We stayed in that ballroom until nine o’clock every night, distributing millions of dollars.

Charles did not leave his seat once, personally shaking the hand of every single person who came to the table.

“I am only returning what was always yours,” Charles told an elderly man who tried to thank him.

“The real courage belonged to Arthur Higgins and his daughter.”

My father’s recovery at the university hospital was slow but steady.