Her voice trembled like a string in the wind.
“It’s… It’s Susan. You can call me Sue.”
He wasn’t ready for “Mom” yet. Alex set aside the documents and leaned back in his chair. The week since their meeting had been a blur of thinking, analyzing, trying to understand his own feelings. “I’m listening,” he said carefully.
“I was wondering… maybe we could meet?” Susan sounded hesitant, as if fearing rejection. “At a coffee shop. Neutral ground. There’s a small place near the subway.”
“Okay,” Alex agreed after a pause. “This weekend? Does Saturday work for you?”
“Yes, of course!” The relief in her voice was audible even over the phone. “I’m so afraid of saying the wrong thing. Of making a mistake.”
“Just be honest,” Alex advised. “That’s the only thing that matters.”
They both knew this was the first step toward reconciliation. A timid, uncertain, but crucial step.
“Anna’s Cafe” turned out to be a cozy little spot with checkered tablecloths and the smell of cinnamon. Alex arrived fifteen minutes early and chose a table by the window. Susan appeared right on time, carrying a worn photo album. They were both nervous; she fidgeted with the strap of her purse, he stirred his coffee with a spoon. How are a mother and son supposed to act after twenty years apart? There were no guidebooks for this.
“I brought something,” Susan said, placing the album on the table. “Photos of your father. I thought you might want to see.”
Alex opened the album. On the first page was a young man in a military uniform, smiling at the camera. Familiar features, the same shape of the eyes.
“What was he like?” Alex asked quietly.
“Kind,” his mother smiled through her tears. “Patient. When you were sick, he would sit by your bedside all night. He wanted to protect you from every bad thing in the world.”
Alex turned the pages. His dad and mom at their wedding, his dad holding him as a baby. Family picnics. A life he never had.
“You have his personality,” Susan noted. “Serious, responsible. And you have his eyes.”
For the first time since they met, Alex felt that his parents had truly loved them.
Alex carefully began to talk about his life in the group home. How he protected Maria from the older boys, how they split the last piece of candy, how he learned to read so he could tell her stories.
“You should have grown up at home,” Susan cried, listening to his stories. “In a warm, loving house.”
“But we didn’t become bitter,” Alex countered. “We became stronger. We learned to rely only on ourselves.”
He told her about school, college, his first job. How he built his career and started his own business. Susan listened with wide eyes.
“You’ve become so successful,” she said with pride. “Your father would have been so happy.”
For the first time, she spoke to him in a familiar way, and it sounded natural, as if it had always been that way.
“And Maria?” his mother asked.
“She’s successful too. She’s very talented,” Alex nodded. “A designer at an ad agency. A creative soul.”
“Did she draw at the home?”
“Constantly. On anything she could find.”
Susan smiled through her tears—the first genuine smile of their conversation.
Susan gently asked about his relationships, his family life. Alex was silent for a long time, choosing his words.
“I can’t seem to stay in a long-term relationship,” he finally admitted. “I’m afraid of being abandoned again. As soon as things get serious, I… pull away.”
His mother understood: this was the consequence of her decision twenty years ago.
“I ruined your life,” she whispered, covering her face with her hands.
“You didn’t ruin it,” Alex said softly. “You made it more complicated. But I’m managing. I have my work, my friends, Maria.”
“But what about a family? Children?”
“Not yet. Maybe someday,” he shrugged. “When I learn to trust.”
They agreed to meet every two weeks, no more often, to avoid rushing things. Alex knew that trust had to be rebuilt one piece at a time. His mother confessed that she hadn’t had a relationship since losing the children.
“I couldn’t let anyone get close,” she explained. “Work became my only purpose. Home, the bank, the cemetery on Fridays. Every March 15th, I call in sick,” she added quietly. “It’s my day of mourning. I sit at home and imagine you growing up without me. Your first day of school, learning to ride a bike.”
For the first time, Alex felt true empathy for her. She had suffered too. Maybe even more than they had. Children adapt, but adults carry the guilt for a lifetime.
“I read everything I could find about group homes,” Susan continued. “I studied psychology, trying to understand what you were going through. I bought toys that I would have given you for your birthdays.”
“Where are they?”
“In the nursery. The room is still there. Untouched.”
Alex pictured the room—a museum of a childhood that never was.
Alex carefully brought up the subject of Maria.
“I want you two to meet,” he said. “But she’s not ready yet. She needs time.”
“I’ll wait,” Susan nodded. “As long as it takes. A lifetime if I have to.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Alex smiled. “She’ll come around. She was younger, she remembers less. It’s harder for her to understand the motives.”
They agreed to meet just the two of them for now. They discussed the possibility of going for walks, to the theater, to museums.
“Would you like me to show you your father’s grave?” his mother offered.
“Yes,” Alex agreed without hesitation. “I want to know my family’s history. To understand where I come from.”
“We’ll go next time,” Susan promised. “I’ll tell you everything I remember.”
Outside the cafe, a snowstorm was beginning, but inside it was warm and cozy. As they said goodbye, Alex touched his mother’s hand for the first time—a light squeeze, not a hug, but a step toward closeness.
“Goodbye… Sue,” he said, and the name sounded almost affectionate.
Susan felt the ice begin to melt. Slowly, carefully, but irrevocably.
Alex drove home with a lighter heart. For the first time in a month, he knew he was ready for a cautious reconciliation. His mother wasn’t a monster, but an ordinary woman who had made an impossible choice long ago. At home, he called Maria and told her about the meeting.
“How is she?” his sister asked.
“She’s normal. Sad. Lonely. She loves you very much, even though she hasn’t seen you in twenty years.”
“And how do you feel?”
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