My name was there in faded blue ink.
He had kept that afternoon for decades while I had spent those same years trying to forget it.
“I should have told you I had it, Holly. And I should have asked whether you wanted it back.”
My name was there in faded blue ink.
He pointed to a faded card bearing my mother’s name and our Chicago address.
“I recognized the appointment,” he added. “I remembered you.”
“You remembered me for sixty-one years?”
“Not every day. But I never forgot what happened.”
“I remembered you.”
I studied his face.
“Then how did you find me?”
“Your full name and your mother’s were on the consultation card. I’d looked for you now and then, but I never found anyone I could be certain was you.”
He glanced at the photograph.
“How did you find me?”
“After my wife died, I tried again. I found your name in an old community newsletter online. It mentioned your granddaughter and the roses you grew. Then, months later, I saw a dating profile with the same name and details. I thought it might be you. That’s why I kept asking about your childhood.”
