I wasn’t thinking about the house he kept.
I wasn’t thinking about the money he took.
I wasn’t thinking about the woman he eventually married.
I was simply standing in a kitchen with my daughter, covered in flour.
And I was happy.
A week later, the shelter called.
“We found your man.”
My heart jumped.
“Albert?”
“Yes.”
I drove there.
He was sitting beneath a small awning.
Same brown jacket.
Same backpack.
Older-looking somehow.
But when he saw me, he smiled.
“I wondered if you’d come.”
“You left me a key and a mystery.”
He laughed.
“I suppose I did.”
I told him everything.
The notebook.
My mother.
The letter.
The bank.
The savings certificate.
He listened quietly.
When I finished, he looked down.
“Estelle would have been pleased.”
“You knew my mother?”
“No.”
He smiled.
“Estelle did.”
Then he explained.
Estelle had known my mother for years.
They had met at the hardware store.
