“Then why didn’t he just ask you?”
“He said he’d been trying to work up the courage.”
Margaret folded her arms. “That’s disturbing.”
“Possibly,” I said. “Which is why I’m going to ask him about it.”
Margaret wanted me to stay away. But she’d underestimated how far I was willing to go for answers.
He’d found our family photograph online.
The following morning, Emma drove me to the coffee shop.
I described the man to the woman behind the counter.
“Oh, the gentleman with the newspaper? He usually comes around ten.”
“Wonderful. Two coffees, please.”
Margaret called while we waited.
Margaret wanted me to stay away.
“Mom, please tell me you’re not actually looking for him.”
“I’m having coffee with Emma.”
“You know what I mean!”
“Then you know my answer.”
At ten fifteen, an elderly man entered carrying a folded newspaper.
He stopped when he saw me.
I’m having coffee with Emma.
His hand tightened around the paper.
“Zofia?”
I stood.
“Stanislaw?”
He nodded.
An elderly man entered.
Emma glanced between us.
“I think you two need a moment. I’ll wait in the car.”
She quietly left.
I didn’t embrace him. I didn’t cry.
Instead, I asked the question that had haunted me ever since the package arrived.
Stanislaw?
“Why didn’t you come?”
“He looked at me as though he’d been preparing an answer for sixty years.”
“Before I explain,” he said, “may I show you something?”
He produced a tiny wooden horse with one missing ear.
“You kept that?”
Why didn’t you come?
“You broke its ear.”
“You said it looked better!”
I laughed.
We’d carved it together as children. There was no longer any doubt.
“Sit down, Stanislaw.”
A tiny wooden horse with one missing ear.
He obeyed.
“Now explain.”
He told me he’d survived the war, eventually emigrated, and spent years trying to trace my family.
“I found your Chicago address in 1964.”
“Then why didn’t you knock?”
There was no longer any doubt.
“I went there, Zofia. I stood across the street and saw you.”
“You saw me? And you didn’t even knock?”
“You were outside with a little girl. Your husband said something, and you laughed.”
“Michael?”
“He lifted your daughter onto his shoulders. You kissed him.”
I found your Chicago address in 1964.
“We were happy, Stanislaw.”
“I could see that. You had everything.”
“And you decided I didn’t need to know you were alive?”
“I thought appearing would be selfish.”
I put down my coffee. “You decided that for me?”
We were happy.
“I was afraid of disrupting your family.”
“You could have written!”
“I know.”
“You could have let me know you were alive!”
“I know that too.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
You decided that for me?
Then he whispered, “I was wrong.”
“And why involve my granddaughter instead of contacting me?”
“I only had your old Chicago address. When I found Emma’s photograph online, I hoped she could help me reach you.”
“You could have simply asked her.”
“I know. Apparently, growing old hasn’t made me any braver.”
You could have written!
“You crossed an ocean to find me, then decided what was best for me without asking.”
“I know. I was wrong.”
“Funny. My family does the same thing.”
He lowered his eyes.
“But there’s something else I don’t understand.”
I hoped she could help me reach you.
“What?”
“Why send me the ring after all these years? Were you expecting me to marry you?”
He laughed. “Zofia, we’re a little old for that particular arrangement.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Besides, you’re remembering the wrong promise.”
My family does the same thing.
I frowned. “What other promise?”
“Remember the evening my grandfather died?”
“We sat by your bedroom window.”
“I was terrified of growing old alone. You told me we’d both be old someday.”
Something stirred in my memory.
You’re remembering the wrong promise.
“And?”
“You promised that if either of us ended up completely alone, the other wouldn’t let them stay that way.”
“You remembered that all these years?”
“Every word.”
“I’d forgotten, Stanislaw.”
Something stirred in my memory.
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. My wife died four years ago. We never had children.”
“She must have meant a lot to you.”
“She was wonderful. Her name was Helena.”
The other wouldn’t let them stay that way.
“Michael died five years ago.”
“I know.”
He smiled sadly. “We finally became the two old people we used to joke about.”
My eyes filled.
“I don’t want a wedding, Zofia. I just hoped we might have coffee again.”
My wife died four years ago.
I reached across the table. “Then you should have asked for coffee.”
“I wasn’t certain you’d remember me.”
“Next time, try using your name.”
We laughed.
I thought I’d finally understood why he’d returned. But my daughter was about to ask a question I couldn’t answer.
I just hoped we might have coffee again.
When I told Margaret and Emma everything, Emma wiped her eyes.
“Grandma, that’s beautiful.”
Margaret remained silent.
Then she asked, “Why now?”
“Because we’re old, darling.”
My daughter was about to ask a question.
“No. He knew where you lived decades ago. Why appear now?”
“He explained that.”
“Did he?”
“Margaret.”
“Mom, you inherited Dad’s savings and this house.”
Why now?
“You think he’s after my money?”
“We don’t know. And why did he approach Emma instead of you?”
I hated that she had a point.
“You’re all discussing me as though I’m not sitting here.”
“We’re protecting you.”
You think he’s after my money?
