I lost my wallet. It was returned by a man whose face Id only ever seen in old family photos. But no one ever said who he really was.
It happened in the middle of the Westfield shopping centre. I didnt even notice until I got homecue frantic rummaging through handbag, coat pockets, car, the works. Nothing. Bank cards, ID, cashgone. I filed a report with the police, froze my bank account, cursing myself and shaking like a leaf the whole time.
Two days later, my intercom buzzed. Is this Mrs. Alice Pearce? asked a deep male voice. I think Ive got something that belongs to you. Found your wallet. May I come up?
My heart practically galloped down the stairs ahead of me. At the door stood an older gentleman, maybe around seventy, neat as a pin, silver hair, navy overcoat. In his hand, my wallet.
It was left on the bench by the entrance, he said. Looked like someone had just abandoned it.
I thanked him so many times I lost count and invited him in for a cuppa.
He declined, but before he turned to leave, he looked me up and down and asked, Whats your name? Is it really Alice?
Surprised, I nodded.
He gave a wistful little smile. Thought so. You have the same eyes as Ellie.
I froze. My mums name was Eleanor.
Sorry, do you know my mum? I asked, eyebrows sky-high.
He stepped back. I shouldnt have Its justyou look so much like her. Sorry. He turned to go, but I rushed out: Please wait. Ive seen your face since I was a kidin a photo in Mums bottom drawer. She always said it was someone from a long time ago. But she never told me who.
He stopped. Sighed deeply.
Your mum and I were very close once, he said quietly. Very close.
I ushered him in before he could bolt again.
We sat in my kitchen. He didnt touch his tea.
Your mother was my fiancée. Years back. We were due to marry in 1972. But things happened. I gaped.
My father was against it. Family pressure mounted. Honestly, I lost my nerve. I legged it to Germany, left her all alone. When I came back, she was with someone else. She wanted nothing to do with me. And then I heard she was expecting, but no one ever told me if well, if it was mine.
He looked at me in silence. The kettle whistled in the background, oblivious.
So what did you do? I managed.
I went by her house once. Saw you from afar. You must have been about three, maybe. Spitting image of her. I ran awayI didnt have the guts to face either of you. Over the years I kept my distance, just quietly checking in now and again. Once I saw you at the cemetery. I know, it sounds unhinged. I just didnt want to mess up your life.
I honestly didnt know what to say.
So youre saying you might be my father? I asked.
He nodded. Im not here to ask for anything. I just needed to know youre alright. Happy.
We talked for hours. About what life does to people, how one act of cowardice can unravel everything. When he finally stood to leave, he slipped me his phone number and an envelope. Inside was an old photo of him and my mumyoung, in love, tangled up in each other. On the back, in spidery handwriting: Forever B. 1971.
A few weeks went by. I took a DNA test. It confirmed ithe was my dad.
I havent told anyone except my husband. My father, the one who raised me, passed away a long time ago, and Mum well, she took her secrets with her. But now I know. And I know loveeven love never spokenscatters clues everywhere. Sometimes theyre stashed in a drawer, sometimes in the eyes of a stranger who turns up years later with your walletand your history.
