Chapter 5
By the time I discovered them, decades had passed.
I tried to find her.
I came close.
Then life became busy.
Then frightening.
Then uncertain.
If I get the chance, I will finish this.
If I don’t, you should decide whether you want to.
Not because you owe anyone.
Because you deserve the choice I didn’t have.
Love,
Mom
I pressed the page against my chest.
Choice.
Not obligation.
That mattered.
Below the letter was a photograph of my mother standing beside an older woman outside a community center.
On the back:
Milwaukee, June 2013.
Mrs. Anya Petrovic.
She remembers Elena.
My heart began racing.
There was an address beneath the name.
I immediately reached for my phone.
Then stopped.
The address might be thirteen years old.
Mrs. Petrovic might have moved.
She might not be alive.
I carried the photograph to the kitchen.
Aunt Nadia looked at it.
“I remember her.”
“You do?”
“Your mother called me after meeting her.”
“What did she say?”
“That Elena had worked at St. Catherine’s in Milwaukee.”
“Doing what?”
“Translation. Helping new families with paperwork.”
The same type of work Damon had described in Chicago.
“Why did Mom think Elena was alive?”
Aunt Nadia looked uncertain.
“Because Mrs. Petrovic received a Christmas card from her.”
“When?”
“The year before your mother visited.”
Not proof of today.
But proof Elena had been alive far longer than anyone knew.
“Where was the card sent from?”
“I don’t remember.”
I looked again through the box.
At the bottom was an old folded map.
Milwaukee.
One location had been circled.
St. Catherine’s Community Center.
Another had been marked several blocks away.
A small apartment building.
Beside it, my mother had written:
E.M. lived here until 2009.
Then beneath that:
Moved north?
Damon needed to see this.
Not because he had a right to it.
Because after seven years of searching, he had earned a place in the truth.
We found him at the café two blocks away.
He was sitting by the window with untouched coffee and a newspaper he clearly had not been reading.
When he saw my face, he stood immediately.
“What happened?”
“I found her.”
His expression sharpened.
“Elena?”
“Not exactly.”
I placed the photograph on the table.
“My mother found someone who knew her.”
Damon read the note.
“Milwaukee.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“The wrong city.”
“The book.”
“Yes.”
I sat.
“What if the person who sent it knew my mother?”
“Possible.”
“What if they knew Elena?”
“More likely.”
“And what if they know I’m looking now?”
Damon studied the photograph.
“Then perhaps they want to be found.”
That thought followed me all the way back to Lake Forest.
Two days later, Kirill found Mrs. Anya Petrovic.
Alive.
Eighty-two.
Living with her daughter outside Milwaukee.
She agreed to speak with me.
Only me.
Damon did not object this time.
He simply handed me a folder containing copies of everything he had gathered.
“Take this.”
“Why?”
“In case something helps her remember.”
I accepted it.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
Then added, “Alina.”
“Yes?”
“If you decide you don’t want to continue, that is also an answer.”
I thought of my mother’s letter.
The choice I didn’t have.
“I want to continue.”
He gave a small nod.
“I thought you might.”
Mrs. Petrovic’s daughter brought us tea and left us in a bright sitting room overlooking a snow-covered garden.
Anya was tiny, silver-haired, and alert.
She studied my face for a long moment.
“You are Mila’s daughter.”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
“You have Elena’s eyes.”
I had never heard that before.
“Did you know my grandmother?”
Anya smiled sadly.
“For many years.”
“Is she alive?”
The question emerged before I could prepare myself.
Anya looked down at her tea.
“I don’t know.”
Disappointment came quickly.
Then she continued.
“But she was alive when your mother came to see me.”
I leaned forward.
“Did my mother meet her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Elena refused.”
I stared.
“Why?”
Anya sighed.
“She was ashamed.”
“Of giving my mother up?”
“Of waiting so long.”
I looked toward the window.
Snow slid from a tree branch.
“She spent decades trying to contact my mother.”
“Yes.”
“Then when Mom found her, she refused to meet?”
“She was afraid Mila would hate her.”
“My mother wouldn’t have.”
“I told Elena that.”
Anya’s voice softened.
“Fear is not always reasonable.”
“Where was she?”
Anya looked at me carefully.
“Wisconsin.”
“Where?”
“She moved many times.”
“Do you know where she went afterward?”
“No.”
My hope began slipping.
Then Anya stood.
“Wait.”
She left the room.
When she returned, she carried a small wooden box.
“I kept this because Elena asked me to.”
Inside were several postcards tied with ribbon.
The latest was dated 2018.
Six years after my mother’s visit.
All were signed simply:
E.
The final card showed a lighthouse beside a wide lake.
No return address.
But the postmark remained visible.
Door County, Wisconsin.
My pulse quickened.
“Did she send anything after this?”
“No.”
Anya turned the card over.
On the back was a short message.
Still thinking about Mila.
Still hoping courage arrives before time runs out.
Tell her I kept the blue scarf.
I closed my eyes.
My mother had owned a blue scarf.
She wore it every winter.
After she died, I kept it.
It was in a box beneath my bed.
“Did Elena give my mother that scarf?”
Anya nodded.
“When Mila was born.”
Something inside me shifted.
Not resolution.
Connection.
A thread stretching across forty years.
That evening, back at the estate, I retrieved the scarf from my apartment.
I had almost forgotten how soft it was.
Dark blue wool.
Hand-stitched edges.
I sat on my bed beneath the yellow lamplight and turned it over.
Near one corner, beneath the hem, something felt stiff.
I frowned.
Carefully, I examined the stitching.
One section had been sewn differently.
My mother had taught me basic sewing.
These threads were newer than the scarf.
I found a small pair of embroidery scissors and opened three stitches.
A folded piece of paper slipped into my lap.
My hands went cold.
The paper was thin with age.
On it, in faded blue ink, was an address.
Not in Milwaukee.
Not Chicago.
Not Door County.
Lake Forest.
I read it twice.
Then stared toward the window.
The Volkov estate stood less than two miles from the address.
Beneath it was a date.
October 14, 2013.
Four months after my mother traveled to Milwaukee.
And below that, in my mother’s handwriting, were six words:
Elena says he knows the truth.
No name.
No explanation.
Just those six words.
I reached for my phone.
Then stopped.
Because tucked inside the fold was something else.
A business card.
Old.
Cream-colored.
One name printed across the center.
SERGEI VOLKOV.
Damon’s father.
May you like
On the back, someone had written one final sentence:
Ask what happened before Damon was born.
