I was slouched in my armchair, half-watching TV when the knock came. It was the kids from the neighborhood, but when I opened the door, a woman stood there with a small red box. Her silver-streaked hair caught the light, and my heart stopped.
“Kira?” I whispered, shocked.
She smiled softly. “I found you after two years of searching.”
Memories flooded back—our prom, dreams of a future, and her sudden departure to Germany. She had promised to write, but I never heard from her again.
Now, 48 years later, she handed me a box with a letter and a positive pregnancy test. My heart sank.
Kira revealed she had raised our son, Michael, believing I’d abandoned them. She’d just found the box while sorting her mother’s things.
“I thought you didn’t want us,” she said, tears in her eyes.
When Michael stepped out of the car, I saw the reflection of my younger self. He introduced himself and said, “You’re a grandfather.”
Kira invited me to Portland to meet them. Looking at the quiet life I’d built and the family I’d lost, I said, “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
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