“Elizabeth?”
I gripped the doorframe.
He began to cry.
“It’s really you.”
I couldn’t answer.
He reached toward me, but I remained where I was.
“Please,” he whispered. “Come closer.”
I took one step.
Then another.
I stood beside his wheelchair, staring at the face I had imagined for fifty-five years.
Finally, I spoke.
“You’re alive.”
He nodded, tears sliding down his cheeks.
“Yes.”
“You came home in 1973.”
“Yes.”
“You married someone else. You had children. You became a grandfather.”
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“And I spent all those years believing you were dead.”
His shoulders began to shake.
“Elizabeth, I’m sorry.”
I had imagined hearing those words so often that I thought they would bring me relief.
Instead, they made me angry.
Not the explosive anger of a young woman. Mine was quieter, deeper, and much harder to bear.
“Do you know how many times I visited that memorial?” I asked.
