In the world of country music, time has a way of revealing stories that were never meant for headlines. Some moments wait decades before they are finally spoken aloud, not because they were forgotten, but because they were rooted in humility, respect, and love. This is one of those stories — a story that took twenty six years to come full circle.

On June 4, 1993, Conway Twitty collapsed unexpectedly while traveling on his tour bus in Branson, Missouri. He was rushed to a hospital in Springfield, and soon word reached his children that the situation was serious. At that moment, Conway’s family was gathered at Twitty City, his home just outside Nashville. Time suddenly became their greatest enemy.

Three of Conway’s children immediately began the long six to seven hour drive to Springfield. But one remained behind — Michael Twitty — facing the fear that distance might steal a final goodbye. In the quiet hours of the night, Michael reached out to Reba McEntire, not knowing what to expect, only knowing that hope was running out.

What happened next was never announced, never publicized, and never used to build reputation. Reba didn’t hesitate. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t discuss money.

She simply said: Go to the airport. My plane is waiting. Take it as long as you need. I’ll call my pilot now.

Because of that decision, Conway Twitty’s four children were able to reach him in time. They were there. They spoke to him. They said goodbye. On the morning of June 5, Conway passed away — not alone, but surrounded by those who mattered most. Later that same day, Reba’s plane carried them safely back to Nashville.

When Michael later asked how much he owed her, Reba’s response revealed the heart of old school country values.

She reminded him that Conway once took her on tour, paid her generously before she had proven herself, and treated her like family. You don’t owe me anything, she said. I loved him.

For more than two decades, this story remained largely untold. Then, in 2019, Conway’s grandson Tre Twitty finally met the woman who made that goodbye possible. After waiting twenty six years, Tre was able to say two simple words that carried a lifetime of meaning: thank you.

He shared the story not to praise, but to honor — explaining that Reba herself would never have spoken of it. That, perhaps, is what makes the story endure. In an industry built on spotlight, this moment lived in shadow — exactly where genuine kindness belongs.

This is not just a story about loss. It is a story about legacy, gratitude, and the quiet bonds that define country music far beyond the stage. Some songs fade. Some charts are forgotten. But acts like this — they carry weight long after the final note.

I’ve been waiting for 26 years to meet this wonderful lady and to tell her thank you. I’m publicly telling this story because she is far too classy and modest to ever mention it. On June 4th 1993 my grandfather Conway Twitty collapsed on his bus in Branson, Missouri. He had to be rushed to the hospital in Springfield, Missouri. His children Joni, Kathy, Jimmy & Michael were all back at Twitty City, just outside of Nashville. They were all notified that Poppy was in bad shape and that they needed to get there fast. Joni, Kathy, and Jimmy immediately starting driving to get there as fast as possible. My father, Michael, got a hold of Reba McEntire in the middle of the night and told her the situation. Reba said “Go to the airport, my plane is waiting, take it as long as you need it. I’ll call my pilot now.” My dad went and got on Reba’s plane and flew to Springfield. They all got there and got their chances to say their goodbyes before Poppy passed on the morning of June 5th. Later that day they all flew back to Nashville on Reba’s plane, their world forever changed. A couple of days later, my dad phoned Reba and asked how much they owed her for the plane rental. Reba said “Your daddy took me on tour and gave me $5,000 a night when I wasn’t worth $500, you don’t owe me anything. I loved him”. Country Music is all about family. Thank you Reba for being there for mine