I lost my wallet. The man who returned it was someone I recognised from old family photographs. Yet no one had ever told me who he was.
I misplaced my wallet at the shopping centre. It was only once I returned home that I realisedafter frantically digging through my handbag, my coat pockets, the car. Nothing. All my cards, my ID, the cashall gone. I phoned the police, cancelled my bank accounts, furious with myself and more shaken than Id ever been.
Two days later, the buzzer rang. Miss Alice Turner? a deep voice asked. I believe I have something of yours. I found a wallet. May I come up?
My heart pounded as I hurried down the stairs. Standing there was an older man, close to seventy, neat and silver-haired in a navy overcoat. In his hand was my wallet.
It was on a bench by the shopping centre entrance, he explained. Someone must have left it there deliberately.
I thanked him, inviting him in for a cup of tea.
He declined. But before turning to leave, he looked at me closely and asked, Whats your name? Truly Alice?
I nodded, a little puzzled.
He gave a sad smile. I thought so. You have eyes just like Eleanor.
I froze. My mother was called Eleanor.
Im sorry do you know my mother? I managed to say.
He stepped back. I shouldnt I didnt expect youd look so much like her. Im sorry. He was about to leave, but I managed to blurt out, Wait. Ive seen your face for as long as I can remember. In a photo in Mums drawer. She always said it was someone from her youth. Never said who.
He paused, sighed deeply.
I was once very close to your mother, he whispered. Very close.
I asked him inside.
We sat at the kitchen table. He didnt touch his tea.
Your mother was my fiancée. Long ago. We were to be married in 1972. But then, something happened.
I couldnt speak.
My father disapproved. There was pressure from the family. I was a coward. I left for Germany, abandoned her. When I came back, she was with someone else. She wouldnt speak to me. Then I heard she was expecting. But no one ever told me for certain if the child was mine.
He looked at me in silence.
And what did you do then? I asked in a hushed voice.
I went to her house, just once. I saw you from afaryou must have been about three. So much like her. But I ran. I didnt have the courage. Over the years, I kept my distance. Once, I saw you at the cemetery. I know how it soundsobsessive. But I never wanted to disrupt your life.
I had no words.
So youre saying you might be my father?
He nodded gently. I dont want anything from you. I only wanted to know if youre happy.
We talked for a long time. About life, fate, about how one act of cowardice can change everything. Before leaving, he wrote down his number and handed me an envelope. Inside was an old photograph of Mum and himyoung, in love, arms around each other. On the back, someone had written: Forever B. 1971.
Weeks passed. I took a DNA test. It confirmed I was his daughter.
I only told my husband. The father who raised me passed away years ago, and Mum took the secret with her. But now I know more. I know that love, even unspoken, leaves its mark. Sometimes hidden in a drawer. Sometimes in the eyes of a stranger, who after all this time, finds your walletand your past.
