“And I said I would still be your father. I meant it.” His eyes never left mine. “I moved to Canada for work and because the woman I loved was living there. But I sent money and wrote letters. I even called and asked to come visit you. I asked for photographs. I asked for everything.”
I could feel my heartbeat.
“What did my mother say?”
His face darkened in a silent way that scared me more than the tears. “At first she said it was too painful. Then she said you were too young. Later she said you knew who I was and wanted nothing to do with me. She told me that hearing from me had upset you. She said that contacting you would only hurt you.”
I shook my head slowly. “No.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a worn envelope, then another, then another. The paper was soft with age, the edges creased. My mother’s name was written on all of them in the same handwriting.
“I kept copies of some of the letters. Some she sent back unopened, others disappeared.”
He slid one toward me.
My fingers felt numb as I opened it.
Maria, please, let me see this just once. I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I’m asking you to get to know my daughter.
The letter was dated when I was four.
Another message read: If she ever gets mad at me, I’ll accept it. But please, let it be her choice, not yours.
Another letter read: I’ve re-enclosed the folder. Tell her I remember her birthday.
I couldn’t breathe properly.
“She told me you were dead,” I whispered.
“I know.”
I looked at him. “Why didn’t you come anyway? Why didn’t you fight harder?”
The question came out sharp, and it was exactly what I wanted.
She took it without flinching. “I should have. I’ve been wondering that for 32 years.” She looked down at her hands. “At first, I believed her. I thought she was furious and trying to protect you from the confusion. Then years passed. Then more years.”
She swallowed. “By the time I finally fully understood what she was up to, I had another family, another country, lawyers telling me the jurisdiction issue would be complicated, and everyone warning me that showing up could make things worse if she had already turned you against me.”
I leaned back in my seat and stared at the rain. My entire life had been built on one stark, brutal fact: my father had died before I was born. There had been pain in that story, but also order. Now that order was gone.
“You were the man watching me.”
“YES.”
“Why?”
His throat worked. “Because I didn’t know how to approach you and say hello. I recognized your face the moment Keene sent me your photo. You look like my mother’s in the eyes, and I’ve dreamed of meeting you for decades, failing at every attempt.”
My eyes burned. “Keene found you and called you first?”
“He left a message. It said a woman named Elena was looking for her family.”
Hearing him say my name made me suddenly feel uncomfortable in my own skin.
Then he gave a faint smile, deeply sad. “You don’t even know your middle name is my sister’s, do you?”
I don’t.
Of course not.
After a minute, I asked, “Do you have a family?”
His expression changed. He softened.
“YES.”
Something had twisted inside me. Jealousy, perhaps, or pain from years I couldn’t recover from.
“A wife?”
