I lost my wallet. The man who returned it had a face I recognised from old family photos. But no one ever told me who he was.
I lost my wallet at the high street shopping centre. I only realised once Id come back homefrantic rummaging through my handbag, coat pockets, even the car. Nothing. My cards, ID, cashall vanished. I called the police, cancelled my bank accounts, furious with myself and more shaken than Id ever been.
Two days later, the intercom buzzed. Miss Emily Turner? a mans voice asked. I believe I have something that belongs to you. I found your wallet. May I come in?
My heart hammered as I walked downstairs. Standing at the door was an older gentleman, perhaps in his seventies. Well-groomed, grey hair, a navy overcoat. He held out my wallet.
It was left on a bench by the entrance to Marks & Spencer, he said. Looked like someone had just dropped it.
I thanked him and asked if hed like to come in for a cup of tea.
He declined. But before turning away, he regarded me closely and asked, Whats your name? Truly Emily?
Bewildered, I nodded.
He gave a sad smile. I thought so. Your eyes are just like Ellies.
I froze. My mother was called Eleanor.
Im sorry, did you know my mum? I asked.
He stepped back, clearly uncertain. I shouldnt But you look so much like her. Im sorry. He turned to leave, but I managed to say,
Please wait. Ive seen your face all my lifein the old photo in my mums drawer. She always told me it was someone from the past. But she never said who.
He stopped and sighed.
I was once very close to your mother, he said softly. Very close.
I invited him in.
We sat in the kitchen. He didnt touch his tea.
Your mother was my fiancée, a long time ago. We were to marry in 1972. But something happened.
I sat in stunned silence.
My father disapproved. The family intervened, and I I was a coward. I left for Germany, leaving her behind. By the time I returned, she was with someone else. She wanted nothing to do with me. Then I found out shed been pregnant. But no one would tell me if the child was mine.
He looked at me for a long moment.
What did you do? I asked quietly.
I went to her house one day. I watched you from a distanceperhaps you were three. You looked so much like her. But I ran away. I didnt have the courage. For years, I kept watch from afar. I once saw you at the cemetery. I know it sounds strangeobsessive, evenbut I never wanted to ruin your life.
I couldnt find the words.
So are you saying you might be my father?
He nodded. I dont want anything from you. I just wanted to know if youre happy.
We talked for a long time. About life, about choices, about how one act of cowardice can change everything. When he finally left, he handed me his telephone number. And an envelope. Inside was an old photomy mother and him, young and in love, arms around each other. On the back, someone had written: Forever B. 1971.
A few weeks passed. I took a DNA test. It proved he was, indeed, my father.
Other than my husband, Ive never told anyone. My dadthe one who raised mehas been gone for years now. Mum took her secrets to the grave. Now I know more. Ive learned that love, even unspoken, leaves traces. Sometimes hidden away in a drawer, sometimes in the eyes of a stranger who, after so many years, finds your walletand your past.
