His mother disappeared into the bank building. A few minutes later, a light came on in her office window. Alex could see her silhouette: Susan sitting down at her desk, arranging papers, turning on her computer. The mechanical movements of a person who had long forgotten how to live and was merely existing. On the windowsill stood the same potted plant—the only living thing in the sterile office. His mother watered it every morning, as if her own life depended on it.
Alex decided to wait until after lunch. In the morning, people are busy, thinking about their plans for the day. But in the afternoon, you can talk calmly, without rushing. About the things that matter most. Time stretched on, slow as honey dripping from a spoon.
The bank door opened with the soft chime of a bell. Alex walked through the main hall to the reception desk, the envelopes in his briefcase feeling heavy on his shoulder.
“I’d like to see the manager,” he told the young woman at the desk. “It’s about an important matter.”
Susan received him in her office like any other client. A gesture of her hand—please, sit—a polite smile, a professional tone.
“How can I help you?” she asked, folding her hands on the desk.
Alex slowly took out the envelopes and placed them in front of him, but he didn’t open them yet. He started indirectly, like in a good detective story:
“I wanted to tell you a story about a woman. Twenty years ago, she left her two young children. A boy and a girl.”
Susan listened, but her hands began to tremble at his first words. Alex could see she knew where this was going.
“People judged this woman,” he continued slowly, watching every flicker of emotion on his mother’s face. “They said she was heartless. But no one knew the truth about that day.”
His mother’s fingers clenched into fists. She stared at the envelopes as if they were snakes, ready to strike.
“What… What did this person want to say?” Susan asked, her voice trembling.
Alex rose from his chair, walked slowly to the window, then turned to face her. The light from the window illuminated his profile, and in it, the features of his late father emerged: the same curve of the eyebrows, the same shape of the eyes.
“He wanted to say that he understands,” Alex said, and his voice carried the same inflections as Stephen’s, which his mother had remembered for twenty years.
Susan stared at his face, finding the familiar in the unfamiliar. Her lips trembled, her eyes widened in recognition.
“Alex!” she whispered. “It’s you!”
“Hello, Mom,” Alex nodded, and the words sounded like a prayer after a long fast. “I found you.”
Susan covered her face with her hands and began to sob—bitter, uncontrollable tears, the kind shed for the dead or for irretrievably lost time. Twenty years of pain erupted in a single, long cry. Outside the window, life went on. People hurried about their business, cars carried passengers, the world spun on its axis. But in the small bank office, time had stopped, giving a mother and son the right to the tears they had held back for two decades. Alex didn’t move, letting her cry it out. Some reunions can’t be rushed. They have to ripen on their own, like fruit on a tree.
The tears streamed down Susan’s cheeks, relentless as spring runoff after a long winter. She couldn’t speak, only weep and look at her son, as if afraid he would vanish if she blinked. Alex stood by the window, not knowing what to do with his hands, where to look, how to act. Twenty years he had imagined this meeting, and now he was at a complete loss.
“Come here,” Susan was the first to break the silence, holding out her trembling hands. “Please.”
He slowly approached the desk and carefully sat in the chair across from her. His mother studied every line of his face, like an archaeologist deciphering ancient script.
“You’ve grown so handsome,” she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion. “A real man.”
“I grew up without you,” Alex replied evenly, the words a statement of fact, not an accusation.
Susan flinched as if struck.
“Forgive me,” she said quietly. “Forgive me for leaving. For not being strong enough.”
“I don’t know if I can yet,” Alex interrupted, the honesty in his voice painful for them both.
The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds of their first conversation after two decades of silence. Alex took the folder of documents from his briefcase and placed it on the desk between them.
“Tell me about that day,” he requested. “Why did you leave us?”
Susan took a tissue, wiped her eyes, and tried to compose herself. She began slowly, struggling to find the words:
“Your father died in January. Cancer. I spent everything on his treatment, went deep into debt. When the money ran out…” She trailed off, reliving the nightmare. “The collectors came. The Callahan brothers. They said: either the money, or they take you.”
“They wanted to sell us overseas?” Alex asked, his voice tight. “Sell us?”
“A forged adoption. Then they’d ship you out. They paid well for American kids in Europe,” Susan said, staring at the desk. “My choice was between a group home and human trafficking.”
Alex opened the folder and took out the transcripts from the wiretaps.
“I know,” he said. “I have recordings of their threats.”
His mother looked up at him, surprised.
“I thought I’d come back for you in a year,” she continued. “Find a job, pay off the debts, and bring you home.”
“But you didn’t come back,” Alex stated.
“I couldn’t,” Susan whispered, a fresh wave of tears welling up.
Susan talked, and Alex listened, occasionally checking the documents. The story was coming together into a complete picture—tragic, but logical.
“For three years, I hid in Ohio. Lived under a different name, moved from apartment to apartment, terrified of every knock on the door.”
“You were afraid for us?” Alex clarified.
“For you. For myself. The Callahans were serious people. They would have killed me for less.” Susan shivered at the memory. “When they were arrested in 2007, I came back. I went straight to the group home.”
“And what did they say?”
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