From her pension, Mary Smith, apart from the usual utility bills and buying groceries at bulk sales, allowed herself a small treat—a pack of whole bean coffee.
The beans were already roasted, and when she cut open the bag, their mesmerizing aroma filled the air. She would inhale with her eyes closed, shutting out all senses except for smell, and then, a miracle would happen! Along with the delightful scent, a strength seemed to pour into her, bringing back memories of dreams about distant lands, the sound of ocean waves, the rush of tropical rain, mysterious whispers in the jungle, and the wild cries of monkeys swinging on the vines…
She had never seen any of this, but she remembered her father’s tales, who was often away on research expeditions in South America. When he was home, he loved to tell Mary about adventures in the Amazon Valley while sipping strongly brewed coffee, and its scent always reminded her of him—a lean, weathered, sunburned explorer. She had always known that her parents were not her biological ones.
She recalled how, at the start of the war, as a three-year-old who had lost her family, she had been taken in by a woman who became her mother for life. Then came the usual: school, education, work, marriage, the birth of a son, and now the result—loneliness. Twenty years ago, her son had agreed to his wife’s wishes and moved to live in another country, thriving with his family in the city of Bristol. Throughout this time, he had only visited his hometown once. They kept in touch by phone, and he sent her money each month, but she saved it in a special account. Over twenty years, a considerable amount had accumulated, which would be returned to her son. Eventually…
Lately, she couldn’t shake the thought that she had lived a good life filled with care and love, but it was not truly her own. If it hadn’t been for the war, she would’ve had a completely different family, different parents, a different home. Thus, her destiny would have been different. She barely remembered her biological parents but often recalled the little girl—her peer—who was always by her side in those early years. Her name was Amy. She could almost hear the echoes from the past: “Amy, Mary!” Who was she to her? A friend, a sister?
Her musings were interrupted by a ping from her mobile phone. She glanced at the screen—her pension had arrived! That was good, very timely! She could take a walk to the shop, buy some coffee—she had brewed the last of it yesterday morning. Carefully tapping her way along the pavement with her cane, avoiding autumn puddles, she reached the shop entrance.
At the door rested a little grey, tabby cat, eyeing the passersby and the glass doors warily. A pang of sympathy tugged at her heart: “Poor thing, she’s freezing and probably hungry too. I would take you home, but… Who would you have after me? I’m not long for this world… today or tomorrow.” But feeling sorry for the unfortunate creature, she bought a small pack of cheap cat food for it.
She carefully squeezed out the jelly-like mass into a plastic tray, and the cat patiently waited, gazing up at its benefactor with adoring eyes. The shop doors swung open, and a stout woman with an unpleasant expression stepped out. Without a word, she kicked the cat’s food tray, scattering jelly bits across the pavement.
“No matter how often you tell them, it’s useless!” she barked. “Don’t feed them here!” And, turning away nervously, she walked off. The cat, anxiously glancing around, began to pick the food pieces off the ground, while Mary Smith, breathless with indignation, felt the first sting of an impending episode. She hurried to the bus stop—there were benches there. Sitting down, she frantically rummaged through her pockets, hoping to find her tablets, but it was in vain.
Pain was mounting in relentless waves, her head felt in a vice, her vision dimmed, and a moan escaped her chest. Someone touched her shoulder. Forcing her eyes open, she saw a young woman looking at her, worried:
“Are you unwell, grandmother? How can I help?”
“In the bag.” With a faint motion, she pointed, “There’s a coffee pack. Open it.”
She leaned into the pack, inhaled the aroma of roasted beans once, twice. The pain didn’t leave but eased.
“Thank you, dear,” Mary weakly said.
“I’m Emily, and you should thank the cat,” smiled the girl. “She was right there with you, meowing so loudly!”
“Thank you too, my dear,” Mary stroked the cat, which sat beside her on the bench—the same tabby.
“What happened to you?” the girl kindly inquired.
“A migraine, dear, just a migraine attack. Got a bit too stressed…”
“I’ll walk you home; it’ll be difficult for you to go by yourself.”
“… My grandma also has migraines.” Emily chatted as they sipped weak coffee with milk and cookies in Mary Smith’s flat. “Actually, she’s my great-grandmother, but I call her ‘grandma.’ She lives in the town with my gran, mum, and dad. I study here at the medical college, to become a paramedic. Grandma, like you, calls me ‘dear.’ And you look so much like her; at first I thought you were her! Haven’t you ever tried to find your real relatives?”
“Emily, my dear, how would I find them? I hardly remember them myself. Not the surname, nor where I’m from.” Mary shared, gently stroking the cat warming her lap. “I remember—the bombing while we rode on a cart, then tanks…
And I ran, ran so hard I forgot myself! Terrifying! A lifetime of terror! Then, I was picked up by a woman whom I called mum all my life, and she’s still my mum. After the war, her husband returned and became the best dad in the world for me! From my past, only my name is left. My real family most likely perished under those bombs. Both mum and Amy…”
She didn’t notice how Emily trembled and looked at her with wide, blue eyes after these words:
“Mary, do you have a birthmark on your right shoulder, shaped like a leaf?”
Startled, she choked on her coffee while the cat stared intently at her.
“How do you know this, my dear?”
“My grandma has one just like it,” Emily quietly said. “Her name’s Amelia. She still cries when recalling her twin sister, Mary. Lost in the bombing during evacuation. When the fascists cut off the road, they had to return home and live through the occupation there. Mary vanished. They never found her, no matter how hard they searched…”
From morning, Mary Smith couldn’t find peace. She paced from window to door, waiting for visitors. The little grey, tabby cat stayed close, watching her face anxiously.
“Don’t worry, Maggie, I’m alright,” she assured the cat. “It’s just the heart pumping…”
At last, the doorbell rang. Nervously, Mary opened the door.
Two elderly women stood, looking at each other silently, their eyes filled with hope. It was as if they saw their reflection, noticing the faded blue of their eyes, the grey curls of their hair, and the sorrowful lines at the corners of their mouths.
Finally, the guest exhaled with relief, smiled, stepped forward, and embraced the hostess:
“Hello, Mary!”
And on the doorstep, wiping tears of joy, stood their relatives…
