On her pension, Dorothy Smith, aside from necessary bills and groceries bought on special deals, allowed herself a small indulgence – a tiny bag of coffee beans.
The beans were already roasted, and when she snipped the corner of the bag, they emitted an intoxicating aroma. Inhaling with eyes closed and all distractions set aside, the fragrance seemed to infuse her with energy and summon youthful dreams of distant lands, ocean waves, tropical rains, mysterious jungle whispers, and the wild cries of monkeys swinging on vines.
She had never seen any of these, but she remembered her father’s stories. He was often away on research expeditions in South America. When he was home, he loved recounting tales of his adventures in the Amazon Valley while savoring a strong brew of coffee, its smell forever reminding her of him – a lean, weathered explorer.
Dorothy always knew her parents were not her biological ones.
She vividly recalled the war’s early days when, at three years old, bereft of her family, a woman had found and raised her as her own. Then life unfolded like everyone else’s: school, studies, work, marriage, a son, and ultimately, solitude. Twenty years ago, her son, persuaded by his wife’s wishes, chose to live in another country, happily settled with his family in Haifa. He visited his hometown just once. They kept in touch, and he regularly sent her money, which she saved in a special account. Over two decades, it accumulated to a substantial amount that would eventually go back to him.
Recently, Dorothy had been consumed with the thought that she had lived a good life, full of love and care, but not one originally meant for her. If not for the war, she might have had a different family, parents, and home. Her destiny would have been different. She barely remembered her real parents but often thought of a childhood girl her age who was always with her. Her name was Mary. Sometimes she could almost hear them being called – “Little Mary, Little Dot!” Was she a friend or a sister?
Her ruminations were interrupted by a short beep from her mobile phone. She glanced at the screen – her pension had been deposited! Perfect timing! She could stroll to the shop and buy some coffee; she finished the last brew yesterday morning. Carefully tapping her walking stick along the pavement, maneuvering around autumn puddles, she approached the store entrance.
By the door, a small, striped tabby cat watched passersby warily. Compassion stirred in her heart: “Poor thing, she’s cold and probably hungry. I’d take you home, but… who would care for you after I’m gone? Not today, maybe tomorrow.” Still, feeling sorry for the creature, she bought a cheap bag of cat food.
Gently squeezing the jelly into a plastic tray, the cat patiently awaited, gazing lovingly at her benefactor. The store doors swung open, and a stout woman with an ominous expression stepped out. Without a word, she kicked the tray, scattering jelly chunks across the pavement:
“I tell them over and over—not to feed them here!” she barked and stormed off.
The cat nervously gathered bits of food from the pavement, while Dorothy, breathless with indignation, felt the first twinge of an impending attack. She hurried to the bus stop where there were benches. Sitting down, she frantically searched her pockets, hoping to find the tablets, but it was in vain.
The pain cruelly surged in waves, her head felt clamped in a vise, her vision darkened, and a groan escaped her chest. Someone touched her shoulder. She struggled to open her eyes—a young woman was looking at her with concern:
“Are you okay, grandma? How can I help?”
“In the bag,” Dorothy weakly gestured, “There’s a pack of coffee. Open it, please.”
She pressed the package to her face, inhaling the roasted aroma once, then again. The pain didn’t vanish but subsided.
“Thank you, dear.” Dorothy managed faintly.
“My name’s Polly,” the girl smiled, “but you should thank the cat. It was right beside you meowing loudly!”
“Thank you too, my dear,” Dorothy patted the tabby cat sitting on the bench next to her.
“What happened?” Polly inquired empathetically.
“A migraine, my dear, a migraine attack,” Dorothy confessed. “Got too worked up…”
“I’ll help you home; it’ll be difficult for you alone…”
“…My gran has migraines too,” Polly recounted as they sipped weak coffee with milk and biscuits in Dorothy’s flat. “She’s actually my great-grandmother, but I call her ‘gran.’ She lives in the village with my grandmother, mom, and dad. I’m studying here, training to be a paramedic. Gran calls me ‘dear’ just like you, and you resemble her so much, I thought you were her at first! Have you ever tried finding your real relatives?”
“My dear Polly, how could I find them? I hardly remember anything. Not my surname or where I come from,” Dorothy explained, stroking the cat curled up on her lap. “I recall the bombing as we rode in the cart, then tanks… I ran and ran, forgetting myself! Such terror! Lifelong terror! Later a woman took me in, I called her mom, and now she’s my mom. Her husband returned after the war and became the best father in the world! All I have left is my name. My real family probably perished under the bombs. Both my mom and little Mary…”
Polly visibly trembled and her eyes widened as she listened.
“Dorothy, do you have a birthmark shaped like a leaf on your right shoulder?”
Dorothy nearly choked on her coffee at the sudden question, the cat stared intently.
“How do you know that, dear?”
“Gran has the same one,” Polly quietly said. “Her name is Mary. She still cries when she remembers her twin sister, Dotty, lost during the bombing evacuation. When the enemy cut off the road, they returned home and survived the occupation. But Dotty was gone. They never found her, despite searching…”
That morning, Dorothy couldn’t settle down. She paced between the window and the door, awaiting guests. The little striped cat stayed close, anxiously watching her face.
“Don’t worry, Maggie, I’m alright,” Dorothy reassured the cat. “It’s just my heart fluttering…”
Finally, the doorbell rang. Dorothy nervously opened the door. Two elderly women stood frozen, silently regarding each other with hopeful eyes. Like a mirror, they saw the unchanged blue of their eyes, silvery curls, and the sorrow etched in their smiles.
At last, the guest exhaled with relief, stepped forward into an embrace: “Hello, Dotty!”
Tears of joy filled their eyes as relatives stood watching at the doorstep.
