I had imagined this moment a thousand times over the decades.
In some versions, Thomas came running toward me, young and smiling, and we picked up our lives as though the war had never happened.
In others, I screamed at him for leaving me to grieve.
I had never imagined that I would be seventy-six years old, standing outside a stranger’s room, afraid to turn a doorknob.
Daniel opened the door for me.
Thomas was sitting beside the window in a wheelchair.
His hair was thin and completely white. His shoulders had become narrow, and his hands rested weakly on a blanket across his knees.
For a moment, I saw only an elderly man.
Then he lifted his eyes.
And I saw Thomas.
The same eyes. The same small crease between his eyebrows. The same expression he used to wear whenever he was trying to find the right words.
His lips parted.
