After paying her utility bills and buying groceries at the wholesale store, Dorothy Johnson allowed herself a small treat from her pension—a small bag of whole bean coffee.
The beans were already roasted, and when she cut the corner of the bag, a heavenly aroma filled the air. Breathing it in with closed eyes, shutting out all other senses, was a must. The enchanting scent seemed to fill her soul with strength, reminding her of girlish dreams of faraway lands, the sound of ocean waves, the rush of tropical rainfall, the mysterious whispers of jungles, and the wild calls of monkeys swinging through the vines.
Dorothy had never seen any of this herself, but she vividly remembered her father’s stories. He was often away on research expeditions in South America. When he was home, he loved sharing tales of his adventures in the Amazon Valley while sipping strong coffee, and its aroma always reminded her of him—a lean, sun-tanned traveler. She had known all along that her parents weren’t her biological ones.
She recalled how, at the start of the war, she was a three-year-old girl who lost her family and was taken in by a woman who became her mother for life. After that, her path was like many others: school, studies, work, marriage, and the birth of a son, which eventually led to loneliness. Her son had moved to another country, persuaded by his wife, about two decades ago, and was now thriving with his family in London. He had visited only once in all that time. They stayed in touch, and he sent her money every month, but she saved it in a separate account. Over twenty years, a substantial sum had accumulated, meant to go to him someday.
Lately, she couldn’t shake the thought that she had lived a good life, filled with care and love, but it wasn’t truly hers. If not for the war, she would have had a different family, different parents, a different home, and consequently, a different fate. She barely remembered her birth parents but often thought of a girl her own age who was always by her side in those early years. Her name was Mary. Sometimes she could hear it, as if someone was calling “Mary, Dorothy!” Was she a friend, a sister?
Her musings were interrupted by a short beep from her mobile phone. She glanced at the screen—her pension had been credited to her account! That was good news, just in time! She could walk to the store and buy some coffee—she had brewed the last of it yesterday morning. Carefully tapping her cane on the pavement, avoiding the autumn puddles, she headed to the store entrance.
A little gray tabby cat huddled by the door, warily watching the passersby and the glass doors. Compassion stirred in her heart: “Poor thing, you must be freezing and hungry. I’d take you home, but… Who will look after you when I’m gone? And my time is… not today, maybe tomorrow.” Yet out of pity, she bought a small, inexpensive bag of cat food.
She squeezed the jelly-like food into a plastic tray, while the cat waited patiently, looking at her with grateful eyes. Just then, the store doors swung open, and a stout woman came out, her expression showing no kindness. Without a word, she kicked the tray so the jelly pieces scattered over the pavement.
“You keep telling them, but they just don’t learn!” she barked. “Don’t feed them here!” She turned sharply and walked away in a huff.
The cat, hesitating and watching, began picking up the food pieces from the pavement. Dorothy, breathless with indignation, felt the first pangs of an impending headache. She rushed to the bus stop—there were benches there. She sat down, frantically searching her pockets, hoping to find her pills, but to no avail.
The pain hit in relentless waves, as if her head were in a vise, the world went dark, and a groan escaped her lips. Someone touched her shoulder. She struggled to open her eyes—a young girl looked at her in fright.
“Are you okay, ma’am? How can I help?”
“In my bag,” Dorothy managed weakly. “There’s a pack of coffee. Open it for me.”
She leaned into the packaging, inhaled the roasted beans’ aroma once, twice. The pain weakened, though it didn’t disappear.
“Thank you, dear.” Dorothy muttered weakly.
“I’m Paula, and you should thank the cat,” the girl smiled. “She was sitting right beside you, meowing so loudly.”
“Thank you too, sweetheart.” Dorothy stroked the cat, who was now sitting beside her on the bench. The same tabby.
“What happened to you?” the girl asked gently.
“A migraine, dear, stress-related,” Dorothy admitted. “It happens…”
“I’ll walk you home, it’ll be hard for you to get there alone…”
“… My granny has migraines too,” Paula shared as they sipped milky coffee with biscuits in Dorothy’s apartment. “Actually, she’s my great-grandmother, but I call her ‘granny.’ She lives in a village with my grandmother, mom, and dad. I study here, training to be a paramedic. Granny calls me ‘sweetheart’ just like you do. And you look so much like her, I almost thought you were her! Have you ever tried to find your real relatives?”
“Paula, dear, how could I find them?” Dorothy said, gently petting the cat curled up on her lap. “I barely remember them. Not even my last name or where I’m from. I remember being bombed, traveling in a horse-drawn cart, and then the tanks…”
I ran and ran until I didn’t remember myself! Terrifying! A lifetime of terror! Then a woman found me, I’ve called her ‘mom’ my whole life. After the war, her husband came back, he was the best dad ever! The only thing I kept from before was my name. My real family probably didn’t survive, under the bombs… my mom, and Mary too…”
She didn’t notice that Paula had recoiled slightly, her big blue eyes wide.
“Dorothy, do you have a birthmark on your right shoulder that looks like a leaf?”
The unexpected question made Dorothy choke on her coffee, and the cat stared at her intently.
“How do you know that, dear?”
“My granny has the same one,” Paula whispered. “Her name is Mary. She still can’t hold back tears when she talks about her twin sister, Dotty. She went missing during a bombing, while evacuating. When the road was cut off by enemy forces, they had to return home and lived through the occupation. But Dotty disappeared. They never found her, despite searching for so long…”
From morning, Dorothy felt restless. She paced from window to door, anxiously awaiting visitors. The little gray tabby wouldn’t leave her side, staring at her with worried eyes.
“Don’t worry, Maggie, I’m fine,” Dorothy reassured the cat. “It’s just my heart racing…”
Finally, the doorbell rang. With bated breath, Dorothy opened the door.
Two elderly women stood silently, looking at each other with eyes full of hope. In a way, it was like looking in a mirror—light blue eyes not faded with time, silvery curls of wavy hair, and sorrowful crinkles at the corners of their lips.
At last, the guest breathed a sigh of relief, smiled, stepped forward, and embraced her host.
“Hello, Dotty!”
And on the doorstep, tears of happiness rolling down their cheeks, stood family—real family.
