“You remembered that all these years?”
“Every word.”
“I’d forgotten, Stanislaw.”
Something stirred in my memory.
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. My wife died four years ago. We never had children.”
“She must have meant a lot to you.”
“She was wonderful. Her name was Helena.”
The other wouldn’t let them stay that way.
“Michael died five years ago.”
“I know.”
He smiled sadly. “We finally became the two old people we used to joke about.”
My eyes filled.
“I don’t want a wedding, Zofia. I just hoped we might have coffee again.”
My wife died four years ago.
I reached across the table. “Then you should have asked for coffee.”
“I wasn’t certain you’d remember me.”
“Next time, try using your name.”
We laughed.
I thought I’d finally understood why he’d returned. But my daughter was about to ask a question I couldn’t answer.
