Her middle name, after all, was Petrovna in the old family records—the equivalent of “daughter of Peter.” Shaken, Anna forgot all about the rug. She shoved it against the wall, took off her coat and boots, and went into the living room.
She sat on the couch staring at the locket. What was she supposed to do with this now?
Her whole life she had wondered who her father was. And now, maybe, his only photograph was sitting in her hand. The rest of that strange evening passed in a fog.
Who had hidden the locket so carefully? Her strict grandmother? Her mother? And why hide it at all?
What was so secret that it had to stay buried for decades? Anna kept boiling water for tea and forgetting to pour it. She nibbled absentmindedly on cheese and sausage from the groceries she had bought.
Everything she did felt automatic. Her mind was somewhere else. She had stumbled into an old family secret. She just didn’t yet know what kind.
If that really was her father, could he somehow still be found? But how? By a tiny photo that had to be fifty years old?
She looked at the locket again under the light and only then noticed that it was clearly made of real gold. Not costume jewelry. Not cheap. Something valuable. Maybe very valuable.
If so, maybe someone could tell her where it came from. Who made pieces like this? So on the holiday itself, Anna decided she would go to a nearby pawn shop. She wasn’t even sure one would be open, but it was a start.
That night she fell asleep on the couch under a blanket, still unsettled. Early the next morning, the doorbell rang insistently. Wrapped in the blanket, hair a mess, barely awake, she shuffled to the door.
Standing there was Mike, holding a huge bouquet of her favorite red roses. He looked nervous and oddly humble.
“What do you want?” Anna asked.
“Happy holiday, Anna,” he said, offering her the flowers and taking a cautious step toward the doorway.
“Thanks,” she said, surprised despite herself, and took the bouquet. “Why are you here this early? What about your young wife and your little boy?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” Mike said quietly, looking at her with the expression of a man who knew he had no right to ask for anything.
Anna hesitated, then stepped aside. “Fine. Come in.”
Mike didn’t need to be asked twice. He slipped into the newly renovated apartment. Anna went to the kitchen and put on the kettle, avoiding his eyes. He perched on a stool, hands clasped between his knees.
Like a schoolboy in the principal’s office, she thought. Oddly enough, she felt nothing warm toward him. It was as if a stranger had come into her house, not the man she had spent most of her adult life with.
“Anna, I want to apologize. For everything,” Mike said at last, his voice rough. “There’s no excuse for what I did.”
“A little late for that,” Anna said, arranging the roses in a vase.
“Maybe. But maybe we could try again. Start over.”
“Start over?” she repeated. “And what does your current wife think of that? Is she supposed to quietly put up with everything the way I did?”
Mike lowered his eyes. “There is no wife anymore. And no child.”
Anna turned. “What do you mean?”
