I followed him into the hallway.
“I thought my mother abandoned me and you just didn’t want me to know,” he said.
“I didn’t want you to think you weren’t loved. I love you, Leo.”
“But you also thought that she left because of me?”
“Yes, and I hated her for 18 years.”
He wiped his face angrily.
“I feel happy that she loved me. Is that bad?”
“No.”
“I also feel angry.”
“So do I.”
We stood there crying together, relieved by the truth and wounded by it at the same time.
Then Leo asked, “What did she look like?”
That question broke something inside me.
In 18 years, I had not told him anything about his mother.
I had told myself I was protecting him.
The realization made me feel sick.
Goldi had decided I could not handle losing her.
I had decided Leo could not handle knowing her.
The same kind of silence had passed from one parent to another.
“Come with me,” I said.
I led him to the garage.
At the back of a cabinet was a sealed plastic box I had not opened since we moved out of our old apartment.
I had found it too painful to look at what was inside it.
Inside were Goldi’s photographs, university notebooks, a green scarf she wore every winter, and a silver bracelet I had given her on our first anniversary.
Leo sat beside me on the floor.
I showed him a picture of Goldi laughing at the beach.
“She hated sand,” I said. “She complained all day, then refused to leave because the sunset was beautiful.”
He smiled.
I showed him our wedding photograph.
“Was she funny?”
“Very.”
“Did she sing?”
“Terribly.”
“Do I look like her?”
For years, I had avoided looking for Goldi in him.
Now I saw her everywhere.
The curve of his smile.
The dimple in his left cheek.
The way one eyebrow rose when he was confused.
“Yes,” I said. “You do.”
At the bottom of the box was an old address book I had stored away.
I had told myself I would one day need it if I ever needed to find out where Goldi went.
I had just never brought myself to do it.
The hate and pain held me back as I wondered what good would come from finding a mother who had abandoned her son.
Now that I knew why she left, I had to find out what happened to her.
Goldi’s mother’s name and contacts were inside the address book.
Goldi and Rachel had been estranged for years.
I had met Rachel only twice, and Goldi rarely spoke about her.
I decided that now was the time to reach out.
I hesitated for nearly an hour before calling.
A woman answered.
“Is this Rachel?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Arthur.”
There was a long silence.
Then she whispered, “Goldi’s Arthur?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
Rachel began crying before I asked what had happened.
