I turned to Emma. “Where exactly did he approach you?”
“Outside the coffee shop near my office.”
“Have you seen him before?”
She hesitated. “Actually, yes. I’d seen him at the coffee shop a few times.”
“Did he follow you?”
I’m already involved.
“No. He said he’d found our family photograph online but couldn’t locate your current address.”
“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.
