Marcus ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure agitation and confusion. He stumbled to the nearest chair and sank into it heavily, as if his legs could no longer support him. “Know her?” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Ah, yes. Yes, I knew her. A long time ago.” He looked up at Mary, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “How old are you?” “I’m nine, sir. I’ll be ten in three months.” Marcus closed his eyes and drew a deep, shuddering breath. His hands were trembling. Mary had never seen a grown man look so completely shaken, and it frightened her a little. “Where is your mother now?” Marcus asked, opening his eyes. There was a desperate urgency in his voice. “Where is Clara?” “She’s at home, sir. In our apartment. She’s very sick. That’s why I’m selling oranges, to buy her medicine.” Mary’s own eyes welled up as she thought of her mother lying on their thin mattress, coughing and weak. “The doctor says she needs medicine that costs thirty dollars. I’ve been trying to save up, but…” “Take me to her,” Marcus interrupted, standing up suddenly. “Please. Take me to your mother. Right now.”
Mary stepped back, startled by the raw intensity in his voice. “But… but I don’t understand. Why do you have her picture? How do you know my mom?” Marcus looked at the little girl standing before him, clutching the photograph of Clara as if it were a priceless treasure. He could see Clara in her face—the same eyes, the same gentle expression, even the same slight tilt of her head when she was confused. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst. Could it be possible? After all these years? “Mary,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the earthquake happening inside him. “I need to ask you something very important. Do you… do you have a father?” Mary’s face fell. It was the question she hated most in the world, the one that made the other kids at school tease her and made her feel incomplete. “No, sir,” she said quietly, looking down at her worn shoes. “I don’t have a dad. Just me and mom. It’s always been just me and mom.”
A sound, something between a sob and a gasp, escaped Marcus’s throat at those words. He covered his face with his hands for a moment, trying to wrestle control of the emotions flooding through him. When he looked up again, his eyes were red and wet with tears. “Mary,” he said, his voice thick with a pain she couldn’t fully understand. “I think… I think I might know why your mother never told you about your father. And I think I might know why she had to leave and raise you alone.” He paused, struggling to find the right words. “But I need to see her. I need to talk to her. There are things… things that happened a long time ago that need to be explained.” Mary was more confused than ever. Nothing made sense. Why was this rich stranger crying? Why did he care so much about her mother? What did he mean about knowing why she was alone? “I don’t understand,” Mary said, her voice small and frightened.
Marcus knelt down so he was at eye level with her. Up close, she could see the tears tracing paths down his cheeks. This powerful, wealthy man was crying, really crying, and Mary didn’t know what to do. “I know you don’t understand,” Marcus said gently. “And I know this is all very confusing and maybe a little scary. But please, trust me. I would never, ever hurt you or your mother. I just… I need to see her. I’ve been looking for her for so many years, and now…” His voice broke. “Now you’ve found me.” “You’ve been looking for my mom?” Mary asked, her eyes wide. “Yes,” Marcus whispered. “For ten years, I’ve been looking for her.” Mary’s mind raced. Ten years. She was nine years old. That meant he’d been searching since before she was even born, or maybe right after. A thought, huge and terrifying and impossible, began to form in her mind, and once it was there, she couldn’t push it away. “Sir,” she said slowly, her voice shaking. “Why? Why have you been looking for my mom for ten years?” Marcus looked at her for a long moment. He wanted to tell her the truth right then, to say the words burning in his heart. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until he was sure. Not until he had spoken to Clara and understood the lost decade. “That’s something I need to talk to your mother about first,” he said quietly. “But Mary, I promise you, whatever happens, everything is going to be okay. Better than okay.”
He stood and pulled out his wallet again. This time, he took out several bills and pressed them into her hand. Mary looked down and gasped. She was holding five twenty-dollar bills. One hundred dollars. “This is too much,” Mary said, trying to give the money back. “The oranges only cost six dollars, and you already gave me money for my mom’s medicine.” “Keep it,” Marcus said firmly, but kindly. “Use it for your mother’s medicine, and for food, and for whatever else you both need. And Mary…” He paused, looking at her with such intense emotion it made her heart skip a beat. “Tell your mother that Marcus wants to see her. Tell her that I know she’s alive now, and I’m not angry. Tell her… tell her I just want to talk.” “Marcus,” Mary repeated. “Is that your name?” “Yes.” Mary’s mind was spinning. She looked down at the photograph still in her hands. “Did you… did you love my mom?” Marcus’s face crumpled. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he didn’t bother to wipe it away. “Yes,” he said simply. “I loved her more than anything in the world. And I never stopped.”
Mary didn’t know how to respond to that. She had a thousand questions, but a sudden, powerful need to get home to her mother overwhelmed her. She had to tell her about this strange, wonderful, confusing thing that had just happened. “I should go,” Mary said. “I should go home and tell my mom.” “Wait,” Marcus said. He went to a small desk in the corner, wrote something on a piece of paper, and handed it to her. “This is my phone number and my address, though you already know where I live now. Tell your mother to call me. Or if she won’t call, then bring her here. Or…” He paused, looking uncertain. “Or tell me where you live, and I’ll come to you. Whatever makes her feel safe.” Mary carefully folded the paper and put it in her pocket with the money. “I live in the old apartments on 7th Street,” she said. “Building C, room 12. But… but our place is very small and not nice like this.” “I don’t care about that,” Marcus said quickly. “I just need to see her.” Mary nodded. She set the photograph back on the table with reverence, then picked up her now-empty bag. The sandwiches and juice were forgotten; neither of them was thinking about food anymore. Marcus walked her to the door, then stopped. “Mary,” he said. “One more question. Does your mother ever… does she ever talk about the past? About… about anyone she used to know?”
Mary shook her head. “No, sir. Whenever I ask about the old days or about my father, she gets very sad and quiet. She never wants to talk about it. She always says that the past is the past and we should focus on today.” Marcus nodded slowly, his jaw tight. “I see.” “But sometimes,” Mary continued, “late at night when she thinks I’m asleep, I hear her crying. And sometimes she whispers a name. I think… I think the name is Marcus.” Marcus’s knees almost buckled. He grabbed the doorframe to steady himself. “She says my name?” he asked, his voice barely audible. “Yes,” Mary said. “She sounds so sad when she says it. Like saying the name hurts her.” For a moment, Marcus was incapable of speech, of breath, of thought. Clara had been whispering his name all these years. She hadn’t forgotten him. She had been thinking about him, even after everything. “Go,” he finally managed to say. “Go home to your mother. Give her the medicine she needs. And please, please tell her I need to see her.” Mary nodded and stepped out the door. But before she walked away, she turned back one last time. “Sir? I mean, Marcus,” she said. “Are you… are you my dad?”..
