“Very kind,” Mike’s voice softened. “She was a teacher. Loved kids.”
Leo nodded.
“My mom was really kind, too. She always defended me when Dad got angry.”
“What was her name?” Mike asked.
“Eleanor Miller,” Leo replied.
Mike flinched, as if he’d been struck. But Leo was staring at the fire and didn’t notice the ranger’s reaction.
“And her last name? What was her maiden name?” Mike asked, his voice trembling.
“Thompson, before she got married,” Leo answered, surprised. “Why?”
Mike turned pale. His hands were shaking as he took the kettle off the fire.
“How old was she?” he asked, barely audible.
“Thirty-two, when she died.”
Leo looked at Mike closely.
“What is it? Did you know her?”
Mike turned away, trying to compose himself.
“No. Just a similar name. A coincidence.”
But inside, his world was turning upside down. Eleanor Thompson. Thirty-two years old. A teacher. It all fit. His little sister, Ellie, whom he had argued with fifteen years ago and never seen again.
The walk home was silent. Mike walked, stealing glances at the boy’s profile. He looked so much like Ellie as a child. The same stubborn chin, the same intelligent eyes. Leo was quietly humming a tune to himself—an old nursery rhyme. Mike recognized the melody and almost stopped in his tracks. It was the song his sister used to sing when she was little. Their mother had always hummed it while putting them to bed.
Mike could barely restrain himself from bombarding the boy with questions. He needed to think, to be sure. What if he was wrong? What if it was just an incredible coincidence?
Back at the cabin, he was distracted, his thoughts a jumble. He cooked dinner, thinking about his sister, their fight, how she had left and never written.
“You seem sad today,” Leo remarked at dinner. “Did something happen?”
“No, everything’s fine,” Mike answered quickly. “Just a little tired.”
That evening, Mike couldn’t sit still. He paced around the house, trying to gather his thoughts. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Eleanor Thompson, a teacher, 32 years old. It just couldn’t be.
“So many years have passed,” he thought. His mind took him back to that terrible day, 15 years ago, when they had fought. He had yelled at Ellie that her fiancé was a con man, that she was making a huge mistake. And she had retorted that he wasn’t her brother anymore, and left. For good. Ellie had said then that she was going to marry David. And then she just vanished from his life.
Mike quietly opened the door to the room where Leo was sleeping. The boy was lying on his side, wrapped in a blanket. In profile, he looked astonishingly like his sister as a child.
“Could he really be my nephew?” Mike thought, feeling his heart pound.
He gently closed the door and went back to his room. He had to find a way to confirm his suspicions. But how? And more importantly, was he ready for the truth? Because if he was right, it meant he’d had a nephew for 14 years without knowing it, that his sister had died, and he hadn’t even been to her funeral. It was going to be a very long night.
At breakfast, Mike couldn’t focus on his food. He had tossed and turned all night and had now decided to gently question Leo further. He had to be sure.
“Tell me more about your dad,” he asked, as casually as he could. “What does he do for a living?”
“Dad’s a contractor,” Leo answered readily. “He has his own construction company, so he travels a lot for work. Sometimes he’s gone for a month at a time.”
Mike nodded, continuing his questions.
“And your mom, did she work?”
“Yeah, at a school. She taught history.”
Mike’s heart beat faster. Ellie had also dreamed of being a history teacher.
“Which school?” he tried to ask, keeping his voice steady.
“Northwood High, on Garden Avenue. Mom said she loved teaching older kids because you could have real discussions about history with them.”
Mike remembered: that was exactly the kind of school Ellie had wanted to work at. She always said teaching little kids was boring, but with teenagers, you could have real debates.
“What was your mom’s favorite color?” Mike asked, surprising himself.
Leo looked at him, puzzled.
“Blue. She always bought blue dresses, said the color made her feel young.”
Mike flinched. Blue had been his sister’s favorite color since they were children.
“Why are you asking?” Leo wondered. “Are you sure you didn’t know my mom?”
“Just… just curious,” Mike stammered. “Trying to get to know you better.”
“Go get some firewood,” Mike asked after breakfast. “I’ll tidy up the house a bit.”
As soon as Leo was out the door, Mike frantically started searching through old papers. He kept them in a chest of drawers in his bedroom—all the important documents he had saved over the years. His hands trembled as he found what he was looking for—his sister’s birth certificate. Eleanor Thompson, born June 15, 1992, in Charlotte, North Carolina. If Leo was 14, and his mother was 32 when she died, the timeline fit perfectly.
With shaking hands, Mike pulled out an old box of photographs. He had put most of them away after his wife died—it was too painful to look at them. But among the family photos were childhood pictures with his sister. There she was, Ellie at 14, at her birthday party. The same eyes, the same face shape, the same stubborn set of her mouth. A spitting image of Leo right now.
Mike sank onto the bed, clutching the photo of his sister. Tears streamed down his cheeks; he couldn’t hold them back any longer.
“Ellie! My little sister! I’m so sorry!” he whispered.
His memory took him back to that awful day, 15 years ago. Ellie had come home so happy, talking about her fiancé, David. And he, the older brother, had decided he knew what was best for her.
“Your fiancé is a schemer!” Mike had yelled. “He’s using you. Wake up, Ellie!”
And she had shot back that he was just jealous of her happiness, that he’d become bitter after his own divorce and didn’t want her to be happy.
“I hate you!” Ellie had screamed, packing her things. “You’re not my brother anymore!”
And she left. And his pride kept him from looking for her. He thought she’d come back on her own once she realized he was right.
There was a knock on the door, and Leo came in with an armful of wood.
“What’s wrong?”
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