Part Five — The Years That Stayed

The children grew up in stages, and so did I.

There were driving lessons, school dances, graduations, weddings, and grandchildren who left toys beneath every piece of furniture. One by one, the children moved into homes of their own, but they never moved far from one another.

Most weekends, my house became noisy again. Someone was always arriving with groceries, a forgotten jacket, a new baby, or a problem that needed solving.

I stopped searching for Rebecca. Not because I had stopped wondering about her, but because I had built a life that could no longer be placed on hold.

Then, twenty-eight years after she disappeared, Marianne called me.

“Brian?”

I knew her voice immediately.

“Marianne. It’s been a long time.”

“Rebecca died this morning.”

I gripped the phone until my knuckles hurt.

“She wanted all of you at the funeral,” Marianne continued. “She asked before she became too ill to speak.”

I looked at the photographs on my wall. Nine children at different ages. One family changing from year to year.

“She had twenty-eight years to ask for us,” I said.

“Please come, Brian.”

“I’ll ask the children.”

“You should come for her.”

“If we go, it won’t be for her. It will be because the children choose to.”

All nine chose to attend.

At the service, relatives described Rebecca’s loneliness and suffering. Their words were not false, but they were incomplete. Behind us, a woman whispered that Rebecca had always loved her children.

I turned toward her.

“Love that remains hidden can still leave people alone.”

The woman said nothing after that.