Part 2: The Waitress Who Spoke With Her Hands — The Shocked Billionaire Realized the Broke Girl Knew the Secret He Had Spent Millions to Hide

But his fingers trembled so badly it hurt to watch.

I swallowed the ache rising in my throat and signed back, Would you like me to tell you the specials?

His mouth parted a little. The smallest smile appeared, fragile as a candle flame.

Yes, please.

Behind me, Christopher Hale cleared his throat.

It was not the sound of a man embarrassed by what he had done.

It was the sound of a man realizing the room had slipped out of his control.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

I lowered my hands and turned to him with the same polite expression the Golden Oak had trained into me over three years.

“I’m taking your son’s order, sir.”

One of his friends shifted in his chair. Another looked into his champagne glass as though the answer to his discomfort might be floating there.

Christopher’s eyes narrowed.

“With your hands.”

“Yes, sir.”

His jaw tightened.

Ethan looked down again, but not before I saw the worry move across his face. Not for himself this time.

For me.

That almost broke me more than the humiliation had.

Because he knew. He knew what men like his father did to people who embarrassed them. He had lived close enough to that kind of power to understand the weather of it before the storm arrived.

I looked back at Ethan and signed the specials carefully.

Pan-seared sea bass with lemon butter. Mushroom risotto. Short rib with roasted carrots.

His shoulders eased as he watched me.

He signed, Risotto, please. No mushrooms on top.

I nodded. “Of course.”

Christopher gave a humorless laugh. “He always hated mushrooms. His mother used to pick them out for him like he was five.”

Ethan froze.

It was quiet, but I caught it. The way grief moved through him like a hand closing around his ribs.

I didn’t know then what had happened to Ethan’s mother.

But I knew the shape of missing someone.

I wrote the order down.

“And anything to drink?” I asked him, signing as I spoke.

Water is fine, he signed.

When I walked away from the table, I could feel Christopher Hale’s stare pressed between my shoulder blades.

In the kitchen, the noise swallowed me whole.

Pans hissed. Chefs called orders. Servers slid around one another with trays balanced like offerings to impatient gods.

I leaned against the service station for half a breath, gripping my notepad.

“Mary,” Jenna whispered beside me.

She was another server, two years younger than me, with kind eyes and a talent for appearing exactly when someone needed her.

“What happened out there?”

“Nothing.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Nothing does not make a billionaire look like he swallowed a lemon.”

I ripped the ticket from my pad and clipped it to the line.

“I know sign language,” I said.

Jenna’s face softened. She knew about my brother. Everyone who worked enough late shifts with me knew pieces of my life, the way people learn one another through exhaustion.

“Oh,” she said. “Mary…”

“I’m fine.”

I wasn’t.

But I did not have time to be anything else.

I filled Ethan’s water myself.

When I returned, Christopher’s friends had found safer topics. Golf. A hotel opening in Dubai. Someone’s yacht needing repairs, spoken with the kind of irritation I reserved for overdue bills and empty refrigerators.

Ethan sat silently at the end, separated from them by only three chairs and an entire lifetime.

I placed the water in front of him.

He looked up and signed quickly beneath the table.

You should not have done that.

I pretended to adjust his fork so Christopher would not notice.

Why? I signed low and close to my apron.

My father will complain.

He already complains.

A quick breath escaped him.

Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

Maybe both.

I felt my mouth curve before I could stop it.

Then he signed, My name is Ethan.

I know.

He blinked. Of course you do.

Because everyone knew his name. They knew his father’s company, his family’s penthouse, the rumors of old money folding into new money until there was too much of both to count.

But they did not know the way he held his hands too close to himself, as if even his language had learned to apologize.

I signed, I’m Mary.

He glanced at my name tag and gave me a small, embarrassed smile.

I know.

For the first time that evening, something light passed between us.

Then Christopher’s voice cut in.

“Are you two finished?”

I straightened immediately.

“Yes, sir. Your appetizers should be out shortly.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m paying for dinner, not a performance.”

The words landed softly enough that nearby tables might have missed them.

But Ethan did not.

His face closed again.

I walked away before my own expression betrayed me.

For the next hour, I moved between table twelve and my other guests, carrying plates, pouring wine, answering questions, pretending my heart was not hovering near the end of Christopher Hale’s table.

Each time I approached, I watched Ethan become smaller.

When his risotto arrived, he thanked me in sign. When Christopher’s friend made a joke he could not follow, he smiled too late and too carefully. When his father spoke over him, he folded himself quiet.

But once, when no one was looking, he took a small notebook from the pocket of his hoodie and began writing.

Not scrolling.

Not pretending.

Writing.

His hand moved quickly, urgently, as if he were trying to catch thoughts before they escaped.

I wondered what he wrote.

Music he could still hear in pieces? A letter? A story? A list of everything he wished he could say at that table?

Near dessert, Christopher ordered coffee.

“Black,” he said. “And for him, whatever he drinks.”

Ethan’s fingers tightened around his glass.

I looked at him.

Tea? I signed.

He nodded gratefully. Mint, if you have it.

I brought mint tea in a small white pot.

When I set it down, something fell from Ethan’s notebook and slid under the table.

A folded sheet of paper.

He reached for it too late.

It landed near my shoe.

I bent before anyone else noticed and picked it up.

I meant only to hand it back.

But the page had opened just enough for me to see three words written across the top in firm, careful handwriting.

For Mom’s foundation.

I stopped.

Only for a second.

Then I folded it quickly and placed it beside his saucer.

Ethan looked at me with alarm.

I signed, I didn’t read.

It was mostly true.

Mostly.

His face paled anyway.

“Problem?” Christopher asked.

“No, sir,” I said.

Ethan lowered his eyes.

The evening might have ended there if not for the check.

Christopher examined it as though someone had insulted him by adding numbers together.

Then he pulled out a black card and set it on the tray.

“Bring it back quickly,” he said.

I processed the payment with hands that were steadier than I felt.

When I returned, he signed the receipt without looking at me.

The tip line was blank.

I noticed because servers always notice. Not with greed. With arithmetic.

Rent. Bus fare. Groceries. Electricity. The math of survival.

Christopher slid the folder toward me.

“Excellent service,” he said loudly enough for his friends to hear.

Then he smiled.

Not a warm smile. Not even a victorious one.

A testing smile.

I opened the folder at the service station.

Total: $3,862.45.

Tip: $0.

Underneath, in sharp, confident letters, he had written:

Learn your place.

For a moment, I could not hear the kitchen.

My face burned.

It was not the money alone. Though I needed it desperately.

It was the message.

The certainty behind it.

The belief that my dignity was something he could cross out with a pen.

I closed the folder.

When I looked up, Ethan was watching me from across the dining room.

He had seen.

Maybe not the words, but enough.

His face changed.

Not into anger exactly.

Into decision.

Christopher stood, buttoning his jacket. His friends followed, relieved to be moving again. Ethan rose last, clutching his notebook.

As they passed me, Christopher paused.

“Mary, was it?”

“Yes, sir.”

He leaned close enough that I could smell the expensive smoke on his jacket.

“People mistake a little usefulness for importance. Try not to.”

Then he walked away.

The bodyguards followed.

His friends followed.

Ethan did not.

He stopped beside me.

For the first time all night, he lifted his chin.

Then he signed with quiet intensity, I am sorry.

I shook my head. Not your fault.

He hesitated.

Then he slipped something into the side pocket of my apron.

Before I could react, he hurried after his father and disappeared through the front doors.

I reached into my apron.

A folded napkin.

Inside was a fifty-dollar bill and a note.

His handwriting was neat, slightly slanted.

I know it does not fix what he did. Thank you for speaking to me like I was there.

My throat tightened so fast I had to step into the hallway behind the wine room.

I leaned against the wall and pressed the note to my chest.

Fifty dollars would not save my apartment.

But sometimes hope does not arrive as a rescue.

Sometimes it arrives as proof that kindness did not vanish completely from the world.

“Mary.”

My manager’s voice made me flinch.

Mr. Dalton stood at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“My office. Now.”

The note disappeared into my pocket.

I followed him through the back corridor, past stacked linens and crates of imported mineral water, into a small office that smelled of printer ink and stress.

He closed the door.

For a moment, he only looked at me.

Then he said, “Christopher Hale called from his car.”

My stomach dropped.

“He said you behaved inappropriately.”

I stared at the carpet.

“He said you made his table uncomfortable.”

“I took his son’s order.”

“He said you inserted yourself into a private family matter.”

I lifted my eyes.

“He humiliated his son in front of me.”

Mr. Dalton rubbed his forehead.

“You think I don’t know what kind of man he is?”

That surprised me.

He sank into his chair, suddenly looking older than he had five minutes ago.

“Mary, this restaurant stays open because men like him spend more on dinner than most people make in a month. I’m not saying that’s fair. I’m saying that’s the building we’re standing in.”

“So I’m fired.”

The words came out flat.

He didn’t answer right away.

My rent notice flashed in my mind. The kitchen floor. The $340. The way my brother had texted that morning asking if I could help with his medication refill, and how I had typed yes before checking my account because some promises came before math.

Mr. Dalton opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope.

My final paycheck, I thought.

My knees nearly gave.

Instead, he slid a smaller envelope across the desk.

“I can’t put you on VIP tables for a while,” he said. “Not until this cools down.”

“That’s punishment.”

“It’s protection.”

I let out a bitter breath. “From whom?”

“From everyone who thinks Christopher Hale’s mood is more valuable than your job.”

The answer was too honest to argue with.

“What’s in the envelope?” I asked.

“Your tips from last week’s banquet. Accounting forgot to include the cash pool.”

I opened it with shaking fingers.

Two hundred and seventy dollars.

Not enough.

But not nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

I looked at him.

Mr. Dalton had never been warm. Fair, sometimes. Tired, always. But not warm.

That night, though, something in his voice had softened.

He glanced toward the closed door and lowered his tone.

“I had a sister who was hard of hearing. People talked around her like she was a lamp. I should have said something out there. I didn’t.”

I did not know what to do with his confession.

So I nodded once.

“Go home,” he said. “I’ll mark the rest of your shift paid.”

The bus ride home smelled like rain and damp wool.

I sat near the window, Ethan’s note unfolded in my lap.

Thank you for speaking to me like I was there.

I read it until the words blurred.

My apartment was on the third floor of a brick building that leaned slightly to the left, as if tired of holding everyone’s lives upright. The hallway light flickered. Someone’s television murmured through a wall. Mrs. Alvarez from 2B had left a bag of oranges outside my door with a sticky note.

For you, honey. You looked pale yesterday.

That was the thing about being broke in a building full of broke people.

No one had enough.

Everyone gave anyway.

Inside, my apartment was small and chilly. A thrift-store couch. A table with one uneven leg. A photo of my brother Daniel and me taped to the fridge, taken before the accident, before hospitals and therapy bills and the long silence that followed.

Daniel had been fourteen when a delivery truck hit him on his bike.

He survived.

Everyone said that like it was the end of the story.

But survival had chapters no one clapped for. Pain. Fear. Months when he would not speak. Nights when he woke screaming without sound. My mother worked double shifts then, and I learned sign language from library books, online videos, and an elderly neighbor named Mr. Cho who had lost his hearing in the war and still made the best dumplings in the neighborhood.

At first, Daniel only signed one word.

No.

No doctors.

No school.

No talking.

No lights.

No one.

Then, one winter morning, after I had spent twenty minutes signing a ridiculous story about a pigeon stealing a hot dog, he looked at me and signed two words.

Again, Mary.

That was the day I learned language could be a rope thrown across darkness.

I put Ethan’s note beside Daniel’s photo.

Then I opened my purse and took out the eviction notice.

$1,800 due immediately.

I counted my money twice.

With the envelope from work, Ethan’s fifty, and what little I had in the bank, I was still short.

Very short.

I slept badly.

Sometime before dawn, I dreamed of Christopher Hale’s blank tip line turning into a door that would not open. Behind it, someone was signing, but I could not see their hands clearly enough to understand.

The next morning, my phone buzzed at 7:13.

Unknown number.

I almost ignored it.

Then I thought of landlords, hospitals, and every disaster that prefers mornings.

I answered.

“Hello?”

There was a pause.

Then a mechanical voice spoke, slightly flat but clear.

Hello. This is Ethan Hale. I hope this is Mary.

I sat up so fast the blanket fell to the floor.

“Yes. This is Mary.”

Another pause.

He was typing.

I apologize for contacting you. I asked the restaurant if they could forward a message. They refused. I found your number on the receipt copy because you entered your server ID. That may sound strange. I am sorry.

I blinked at the wall.

“It’s okay,” I said carefully.

I was not sure it was okay, exactly, but his apology arrived before his request, and that mattered.

The voice continued.

I wanted to ask whether you would meet me somewhere public today. I have something to explain. It concerns last night. And my mother.

My eyes moved to the note on my table.

For Mom’s foundation.

Outside, rain tapped lightly against the window.

“I have work at four,” I said. “I can meet before then.”

Thank you. There is a small café on Linden and Third. Blue awning. Noon?

“I know it.”

The next pause was longer.

Please do not tell my father.

The words sat between us.

Not dramatic. Not fearful in an obvious way.

But heavy.

“I won’t,” I said.

After the call ended, I stared at my phone.

Then I laughed once, quietly, because my life had become strange enough that a billionaire’s son had used a text-to-speech app to invite me to coffee while I was calculating whether I could afford laundry.

The café on Linden and Third was the opposite of the Golden Oak.

Mismatched chairs. Fogged windows. A chalkboard menu with three words misspelled. The kind of place where nobody cared if your shoes were old.

Ethan was already there when I arrived.

He sat in the back corner wearing the same red hoodie, though today he had a denim jacket over it. Without his father’s table around him, he looked younger. Not weak. Just unfinished, as if he had spent too much of his life waiting for permission to become himself.

When he saw me, he stood too quickly and nearly knocked over his tea.

I smiled and signed, Careful.

Color rose in his face.

He signed back, I am better with chairs when I am not nervous.

I laughed.

His eyes brightened at the sound, then drifted briefly to my mouth so he could read what he could.

We ordered. I insisted on paying for my own coffee until he looked genuinely distressed, so I let him buy it. There are battles worth fighting, and there are young men trying to say thank you with a latte.

We sat across from each other.

For a few minutes, the conversation was simple.

He told me he had studied architecture for one semester before leaving school. Too loud, he signed. Not the sound. The people.

I told him I had been a waitress for six years and knew how to carry six plates but still burned toast at home.

He smiled more easily then.

Finally, he opened his notebook.

Last night, you saw the paper, he signed.

“A little,” I admitted. “Only the top.”

He nodded.

My mother’s name was Claire. Claire Whitmore Hale.

I knew the name vaguely. Society pages. Charity galas. A photograph from years ago of a woman in a pale blue dress standing beside Christopher Hale, smiling as if the camera had asked politely.

“She passed away?” I asked softly.

Ethan’s hands stilled.

Five years ago.

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded, but his face had gone somewhere else.

She started a foundation before she died. For communication access. Interpreters. Hearing aids. Speech therapy. Family support. She said silence should never be caused by money.

The words moved through his hands with practiced care, but beneath them, I saw feeling he was trying hard to contain.

“What happened to it?”

His mouth tightened.

My father delayed it. Then redirected it. Then said it was inefficient. There were documents I did not understand then.

“And now?”

He slid the folded paper across the table.

I opened it.

It was not a letter.

It was a list.

Names of clinics. Schools. Community centers. Legal aid offices. Beside some were dollar amounts. Beside others were question marks. At the bottom, in darker ink, one sentence was underlined twice.

Find the original trust documents.

I looked up.

“Ethan…”

He leaned forward.

My mother left money for the foundation. A lot of money. I do not know where it went.

The café seemed to dim around us.

“Do you think your father took it?”

He looked down.

A long pause.

Then: I think he buried it.

There was no accusation in his expression. Not exactly. More like grief that had run out of excuses.

“Why tell me?” I asked.

He folded his hands.

Because you signed to me when there was nothing to gain.

The answer landed with uncomfortable force.

I looked away first.

Outside, a woman hurried past under a yellow umbrella. A bus sighed at the curb. Somewhere behind the counter, the espresso machine screamed.

“I’m a waitress,” I said gently. “I don’t know anything about trusts or foundations.”

I know.

That was not comforting.

He continued, But you know people who need help. Real people. Not charity photos. My mother hated charity photos.

Despite myself, I smiled.

“She sounds wonderful.”

She was. And she knew your brother.

Everything inside me went still.

“What?”

Ethan watched my face carefully.

Daniel Lin. Your brother. He attended a therapy program at Riverside Children’s Center after his accident.

My hand tightened around the paper.

“How do you know that?”

My mother funded part of the program quietly. She visited sometimes. She met Daniel. She talked about a boy who signed jokes with his sister and made the nurses laugh.

The room tilted.

I remembered a woman in a blue coat.

I had not thought of her in years.

She had come twice to the therapy center. Soft voice. Kind eyes. She brought books, not cameras. Daniel liked her because she spoke to him directly and waited for his answers.

Claire.

I had never known her last name.

“She paid for the winter sessions,” I whispered.

Ethan nodded.

My mother kept notes. Not invasive ones. Stories. Reminders of why the work mattered.

My throat burned.

For years, I had carried the memory of anonymous help like a small lantern. Someone had covered part of Daniel’s therapy when my mother’s insurance refused. Someone had made it possible for him to keep going until his hands found confidence and his voice, slowly, returned when he was ready.

That someone had been Ethan’s mother.

I stared at him across the café table.

No wonder he had looked familiar in grief.

Some debts do not ask to be repaid.

They wait until the right moment and become a choice.

“What do you need from me?” I asked.

Relief crossed his face, followed quickly by fear.

Not money. Not anything dangerous. I need to find someone my mother trusted. Her assistant. Her name was Vivian Park. I think she had the original documents. My father’s office says she moved away after my mother died. I found one old address, but I do not know if it is current.

He took a small card from his notebook and placed it on the table.

Vivian Park.

Below it, an address in Queens.

I recognized the neighborhood. Not well, but enough.

“You want me to go with you.”

He nodded.

People listen to you.

I almost laughed.

“Ethan, people order from me.”

That is not the same thing.

His certainty quieted me.

I thought of my eviction notice. My shift at four. My aching feet. My brother’s medication. Every practical part of my life stood up at once and shouted no.

Then I thought of Claire in the blue coat, kneeling so Daniel could see her lips while she asked him what book he wanted next.

“What time?” I asked.

Ethan looked stunned.

Then he signed, Now?

We took the subway.

Ethan seemed nervous underground. Not because of the crowd, exactly, but because conversations moved everywhere at once and none of them were fully reachable. Announcements garbled overhead. People brushed past. A child stared at his hearing aids until her mother gently turned her away.

I signed when I could, spoke when he watched my mouth, and wrote on my phone when the train jolted too hard for clear conversation.

At one point, he typed and showed me:

My father thinks independence is something you purchase for children who make you proud.

I read it twice.

Then I typed back:

My mother thinks independence is taking three buses because asking for a ride feels expensive.

He looked at the message.

Then he laughed silently, shoulders shaking.

It was the first real laugh I saw from him.

Vivian Park’s old address led us to a narrow brick house with green shutters and flowerpots full of basil. An elderly man answered the door.

When Ethan typed Vivian’s name into his phone and showed him, the man frowned.

“Vivian? She hasn’t lived here in years.”

Ethan’s face fell.

“Do you know where she went?” I asked.

The man looked from me to Ethan, then back again.

“Depends who’s asking.”

I understood suspicion. It was a language of its own.

“My name is Mary Lin,” I said. “This is Ethan Hale. We’re trying to find records connected to Claire Hale’s foundation.”

At Claire’s name, something changed in his face.

“Claire,” he repeated. “Now there was a lady.”

“You knew her?”

“My wife did. Vivian rented upstairs from us. Quiet woman. Always carrying file boxes.” He scratched his chin. “She left in a hurry after Mrs. Hale died.”

“Do you have a forwarding address?”

He hesitated.

Ethan lifted his hands.

I did not translate yet.

His signs were slower now, deliberate.

Please. My mother trusted her. I am trying to finish something my mother started.

The old man did not understand the words, but he understood the plea.

Maybe some things do not need the same language.

I translated softly.

The man sighed.

“My wife kept Christmas cards. Wait here.”

He shut the door.

Ethan exhaled and leaned against the railing.

You did that well, he signed.

“So did you.”

He looked surprised.

I meant it.

The door opened again.

The man handed us an envelope with the corner torn off. On the back was a return address.

Vivian Park
Ravenswood Residence
Maple Hollow, New York

“Assisted living,” the man said. “My wife wrote back once. Vivian said her hands weren’t good anymore, but her memory was.”

Ethan took the envelope as if it were made of glass.

Thank you, he signed.

The man gave a gruff nod, though he could not know the exact words.

On the subway back, Ethan was different.

Not happy.

Hopeful, which is more frightening than happiness because it has farther to fall.

Maple Hollow was two hours away by train. We could not go that day. I had work. He had, apparently, a family dinner he had no desire to attend and no easy way to avoid.

At the station near my apartment, we stood beneath a leaking awning while rain threaded silver lines in front of us.

“I should go,” I said.

He nodded, then reached into his jacket.

For one panicked second, I thought he was going to offer money.

Instead, he handed me a small blue pin.

It was shaped like an oak leaf.

My mother gave these to volunteers, he signed. I found a box of them in storage. I kept one.

“I can’t take that.”

Please.

The word was small, but his eyes were not.

I took the pin.

“Thank you.”

He smiled.

Then his phone buzzed.

He checked it and went pale.

“What is it?”

He turned the screen toward me.

A message from someone named C. Hale.

Dinner moved to 6. Do not be late. And stop wandering.

Below it was another line.

We need to discuss the waitress.

My stomach tightened.

Ethan locked the phone.

I am sorry, he signed.

“You keep saying that for things you didn’t do.”

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he signed, I am trying to learn the difference.

After he left, I stood under the awning until the rain soaked through one shoulder of my coat.

At work that evening, Mr. Dalton put me on the side section near the bar, far from the private rooms. The tables were smaller. The tips were smaller. But no one wrote messages on receipts, and for four hours, that felt like mercy.

Around nine, Jenna cornered me near the coffee station.

“You look like you’re living three lives at once.”

“Only two and a half.”

She handed me a bread roll wrapped in a napkin.

“Eat.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are one unpaid bill away from becoming a ghost. Eat.”

So I ate.

The roll was warm.

I nearly cried over it, which felt excessive, even for me.

When my shift ended, Mr. Dalton stopped me by the host stand.

“There’s an envelope for you.”

My pulse jumped.

“From who?”

“No name. It was left with the concierge.”

The envelope was cream-colored. Expensive.

My name was written on the front in block letters.

Inside was not cash.

It was a notice from my landlord.

Balance paid in full.

For three months.

Attached was a receipt.

Paid by: C.W.H. Foundation Trust.

I stared at it until the letters moved.

“Mary?” Jenna asked.

I couldn’t answer.

Because the Claire Whitmore Hale Foundation was supposed to be delayed, redirected, buried.

Yet somehow, it had just paid my rent.

At home, I spread the papers across my table.

The receipt looked real. Account number. Management company stamp. Date. Confirmation code.

I called the landlord’s emergency line and entered the code twice.

The automated system confirmed it.

Your balance is zero.

I sat down hard.

For one wild second, relief washed over me so powerfully I covered my face and laughed into my palms.

Three months.

Three months of not waking at 3 a.m. calculating disaster.

Three months of breathing.

Then the fear arrived.

Who had done it?

Ethan?

But he said he did not control the foundation.

Christopher?

Impossible. And if it was not impossible, it was worse.

I picked up my phone and texted Ethan.

Did you pay my rent?

The answer came six minutes later.

No. What happened?

I sent a photo of the receipt.

For a long time, no reply.

Then:

Mary, do not show this to anyone yet.

My fingers turned cold.

Why?

His reply came in pieces.

The foundation account was supposed to be inactive.

Then:

Only three people should have access.

Then:

My mother.

My father.

Vivian Park.

I looked at the papers again.

The apartment felt suddenly too quiet.

My phone buzzed once more.

A new message from Ethan.

Vivian Park died two years ago.

I read it three times.

Then, before I could type anything back, an unknown number called.

I let it ring.

It stopped.

A voicemail appeared.

My hand hovered over the screen.

Then I pressed play.

A woman’s voice filled my small kitchen—older, soft, and trembling slightly.

“Mary Lin, my name is Vivian Park. If you have received this message, then Claire’s emergency instruction has finally been triggered. Do not trust the first person who offers to explain. And whatever Ethan believes, his mother did not die the way they told him.”

END OF PART 2 – LIKE, SHARE AND COMMENT “”THE ENTIRE STORY”” IF YOU WANT TO READ THE FULL STORY.