I lost my wallet. The man who returned it had a face Id seen in family photographs, yet no one ever told me who he was.
It happened last Saturday at the shopping centre in Cambridge. I didnt notice until I got homefrantic rummaging through my handbag, coat pockets, car seats. Nothing. All my cards, ID, a bit of cashgone. I filed a report with the police, cancelled my bank cards. I was furious with myself and shaken up more than Id like to admit.
Two days later, the doorbell rang. Mrs Alice Green? asked a mans voice through the intercom. I believe I have something of yours. I found your wallet. May I come up?
My heart thumping, I hurried down the stairs. Waiting by the entrance was an older gentleman, probably about seventy, neat, silver-haired, wrapped in a navy overcoat. In his handmy wallet.
It was lying on a bench just outside the shopping centre, he explained. Someone must have dropped it on purpose.
I thanked him. Out of courtesy, I asked if hed join me for a cup of tea, but he politely declined. Before turning to leave, he looked at me closely and asked, Whats your name? Are you really called Alice?
Slightly baffled, I nodded.
He smiled, a little wistfully. I thought so. You have your mothers eyes. Like Elizabeths.
I froze. My mothers name was Elizabeth.
Excuse me, do you know my mother? I managed.
He stepped back, uneasy. I probably shouldnt I didnt expect youd look so much like her. Forgive me. He made to go, but I said quickly,
Wait. Ive seen your face in our family photographs, since I was a child. Mum kept one in her drawer, always said it was someone from the old days. But she never said who.
He paused and sighed. I was very close to your mother, once, he said gently. Very close.
I invited him inside.
We sat in the kitchenhe didnt touch the tea I poured. Your mother was my fiancée. A lifetime ago. 1972, we were meant to be married. But something happened.
I was speechless.
My father disapproved. There was pressure from my family. I was a coward. I left for Germany, abandoned her. When I came back, she was with someone else. She wanted nothing to do with me. Thats when I learnt shed been expecting a child. But no one would confirm if the baby was mine.
He watched me in silence.
What did you do? I finally asked.
I visited your home once. Watched from afar. You must have been about three. You had her look. But I lost my nerve and left. Over the years I kept track once saw you at the churchyard. I know it sounds bizarre. I never meant to disrupt your world.
I didnt know what to say.
So youre saying you might be my father? I managed, at last.
He nodded. I dont want anything from you. I simply wanted to know if you are happy.
We spoke for a long time. About choices, about how one act of cowardice can overturn a whole life. When he left, he handed me his phone number, and an envelope. Inside was an old black-and-white photograph of him and Mum, young and close. On the back, in faded writing: Forever B. 1971.
A few weeks passed. I took a DNA test. It confirmed he was my father.
I never told anyone apart from my husband. The man I called Dad has been gone for years, and Mum took her secret to the grave. But I know more now. And I understand that love, even unspoken, leaves traces. Sometimes tucked away in a drawer. Sometimes in the gaze of a stranger who returns your walletand part of your past.
