Maria Ana Dannel was a loving wife, mother, grandmother, and friend. She left this world the night of December 17 2030 at age 76.
She was born to Augustin and Elvire Grigorescu on July 28, 1954. After graduating from James Madison High School, she went on to attend Columbia University where she eventually earned a spot as a member of their faculty. She divorced her first husband, Jasper Dannel, in 1980 and never remarried. Although she had a long-term partner in Alphonse Dalca, who helped her raise her daughters, Rozalia and Angelica.
Maria spent most of her time in lecture halls or libraries, she would either be teaching or reading. Some would say she had multiple children as she formed closed bonds with many of her students. One of those students was her adoptive daughter, Angelica, who was taken in by Maria when she was 18. Besides the time she spent in the confines of English literature, Maria spent a large amount of time helping those less fortunate than her. Especially, when it came to helping ensure those in need were allowed to learn.
Maria extended that nature to Angelica when she met the 16-year-old at a college orientation hosted by the girl's high school. As she would relate to relatives after formally adopting Angelica, she met a kindred soul that day. Despite already being near 50 at the time, she extended her guidance and home to a stranger.
A funeral service is scheduled for 11 am on December 20, 2030, at the Eastern Orthodox Church on the corner of 81st Street and Ridge Boulevard. In place of flowers, please donate to the Maria Ana Dannel Scholarship.
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Angie continued to stare at her computer screen, her finger hovering over the backspace. She didn't like it. The wording, the extra mention of herself in her mother's obituary. Except, that was what everyone wanted to remember. A key factor in the latter half of Maria's life involved her adoption. Alphonse and Rozalia wanted her to mention it. Let others know about the truly amazing act which prompted her to create a scholarship in her own name.
Angie, on the other hand, didn't want to be put in the obituary. This obituary shouldn't involve her explicitly. It should be about Maria and her life even if it involved her. Everyone from her family to her publisher thought it was an excellent idea. An excellent idea to promote her next book which was a personal memoir of sorts about being taken in by her mother.
She shook her head and sent the obituary to the newspapers while posting one to her personal Facebook page. It might not have been what Angie wanted, but it was something everyone else was fine with. She only had to write it.
The dull ache in the back of her head only worsened as she attempted to return to her work. Angie caved and walked into her kitchen for one of her favorite wine coolers. She needed to be doing something. With a few clicks of the mouse, she moved onto her emails.
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To: Sisterangel
From: Emmamobal
Subject: What happened?!
Date: December 15
I just finished reading Favor's Savor and I'm shook! Why didn't Angelica Yang do anything?! She was always being misunderstood by the people around her except for her two friends. And why did you have them not attend the prom with her? Instead, you let Angelica make a fool of herself and ended up getting punished!
Angelica didn't deserve to experience the fallout like that! Shipped off to some European boarding school and taken away from her only two friends in the world. Just! What! Kind! OF ENDING WAS THAT?! You don't even let us know what happens to her. You only mention Veronica and Lutz ending up together and how everyone moved on without Angelica. You made your main character not matter in her OWN story!
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Angie felt an amused smile flit across her face. It was common for her to receive emails like that from readers in regards to her first book. Favor's Savor. It was a strange stereotypical teen romance novel, but the main character wasn't the heroine, instead, it was the "antagonist" in the heroine's life. It had entertained her to write something in a usually unspoken perspective. She hadn't imagined the story of her unfortunate character would resonate, or at least anger, so many people it garnered modest popularity.
She wrote up a quick reply and even sent a little section of an unpublished sequel to Angelica's story back. It was a standard response and she felt a bit amused that there was a thread on Reddit where people were trying to find out what happened afterward.
Angie took another long drink from her wine cooler as she reflected upon the fact. There was more to that unpublished sequel. She couldn't finish the story. She would stare at her computer or notebook for hours trying to detail the events of Angelica's life after a certain scene, but something blocked her from coming to some conclusion.
She blew out a heavy breath and decided to answer another email before turning in for the night.
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To: Sisterangel
From: Yangjon
Subject: Angelica, is that you?
Date: December 14
I tried to request a phone number from your publisher, but they instead wished for me to email you first. They told me you were prone to answering a majority of your emails even if the reply is a simple message of thanks.
This may be a strange message to receive, but I have reason to believe you might be my sister. My sister would be close to your age and the story you have written includes my family and me. I know it's supposed to be a fictitious story of a girl, but that girl and the incidents surrounding her are identical to my sister. We received news that she had disappeared from her boarding school in 2007 and were unable to locate her anywhere in Europe. No body was found nor any hints that she had resurfaced somewhere. That was until an acquaintance of ours read your book. They suggested we look into it, but my parents have since given up hopes to find their daughter. I, on the other hand, haven't lost hope of locating my sister.
I've attached an image of our family together in 2006. I hope you'll take a look and reply to me if you have even the smallest suspicions you might be the Angelica Yang I'm looking for.
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Angie had to reread the email multiple times before she dared look at the file attached. "All of this is a lie," she muttered as she watched the file download to her computer. "An elaborate prank by a fan…" she mumbled as she felt her heart rate spike.
There was something which always bothered her, something she had adamantly refused to consider with her therapist. That the reason for her amnesia was because something traumatic had happened to her and she had repressed the memories. It gave life to a consideration that frightened her. Whatever accident she had been in that resulted in her washing up on the shore of a beach in France where she was barely clinging to life. The thought that it caused her to suppress every memory of her life that she forgot who she was frightened her. How terrible of life did she lead? How awful of an accident had she been subject to?
This email, this possibility, stole the breath from her lungs, the peace of her mind. Did she really write about herself without knowing? Did she retrieve these memories and denied them so much she believed them to be fiction rather than truth?
The image downloaded, the subtle flash of the icon seeming more like a siren than an indicator. She double-clicked and waited for it to load in front of her. She gripped the neck of her wine cooler a little tighter. It would be a falsehood. Nothing would happen. She kept telling herself, over and over. Anything to reassure herself from the fear and anticipation which curdled her stomach.
The image loaded. The sight of a happy family of four elegantly posed beside a garden met her eyes. The central theme of the image seemed to be white, a pure and untouched feeling. The oldest man in the picture had salt and pepper hair which was cleanly shaved on the sides while the top revealed a few inches of finely groomed style. The woman, whose shoulder served as a resting place for his hand, was the picture of elegance and modesty. She wore clean fabrics devoid of loud colors or designs save for the subtle texture by off-white lace patterning. The woman's long black hair was silky and smooth. It reminded Angie was the ink brushes one might use in calligraphy. The young man who stood next to his father seemed to have a grim expression. Perhaps, not a grim expression but a serious one. It matched the feel of his email except he was not marked by desperation for a loved one in this photo. The last subject she dared examine was the teenage girl.
The girl who sat next to her mother. She easily rested inside the space of her family, but it felt like Angie alone noticed the strain, the lack of confidence, in those eyes. The dark chocolate center of her almond eyes didn't sparkle like the mother. They didn't shine with the energy placed in her smile. Didn't match the eyes she wore in her college pictures. Didn't match the eyes which cried for joy when her mother adopted her. The girl wasn't her. Wasn't who she was now. Despite all the denials that arose in her mind, the teenage girl was identical to someone. It was identical to the girl who was returned to the United States with scars both physical and mental. The girl who was determined to forge ahead despite the hollowness in her heart and mind.
The character she wrote about. The character she framed as a misunderstood villain in another's picture-perfect romance. That character was her. It felt like something both real and horribly unnatural. She didn't know when it began, but the emotions expanded from her chest like a bottle being knocked over. Slowly at first then like a torrent of liquid grief which spilled from her eyes. The levels of righteous injustice and anger her readers and her young self felt for her character belonged to her, alone. Not to a figment of her imagination. Angelica Yang was not a source of sympathy and understanding, but a subject of self-pity and realization.
How could she have been so blind all her life? How could she have been so forgotten by her own parents? How? How? How could her life as herself end with nothingness on a beach far from any sense of warmth and home?
Angie pushed herself away from her desk and raced to her bedroom. The place she labeled as safe from the weakness of crying. The place she could break down without fear or judgment until she was ready to open the door to her heart and room. She curled in on herself as she conformed to the comfort of her quilt and blankets. Angie felt both anger and regrets fill her mind as those events in her book became explicitly hers. The warmth she felt from the writing of Angelica's first and only true friend had been hers. The anger and betrayal felt at being rejected by another she looked up to and dared to love was hers. All of it had been hers. It had been hers until he came after her. Blamed her for things she had nothing to do with. Forced her to the precipice and shook rather attempt something stupid than humiliate herself further.
How could any of this happen to her? How could she forget it all? Empty herself of those memories and experiences because she felt too weak, too alone, to handle them! That wasn't her. Angie wasn't someone who would fold. She was a fighter. The girl in her story was not her. She didn't want the ending to her story to be what it was. She ran away from it. Angie wanted to rewrite it. To go back and rewrite over all of it!