“They found your number?”
“They found something in her purse with an old disconnected number. The police traced it back to me.”
“Why yours?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never met her since she left.
“I hadn’t.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“When they asked if I knew Gladys, I almost hung up.”
“But they confirmed your identity.”
He nodded.
“They asked if I could come.”
“And?”
“I did.”
He looked toward the hallway.
“She looked at me and said, ‘Kyle?’”
His voice cracked.
“Then she hugged me.”
I reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
“You should have called me.”
“I know.”
“I would have come home.”
“I didn’t even know what to tell you.”
Silence settled between us.
Finally, I asked the question that had been growing louder in my mind.
“If your mother didn’t leave… what happened?”
Kyle stared into his tea.
“I’ve spent four days asking the same thing.”
The next morning, we visited the assisted living center where Gladys had been staying before she wandered away.
The director greeted us with a tired smile.
“I’m Linda.”
She led us into her office.
“I’m sorry you had to meet under these circumstances.”
Kyle leaned forward.
“I need answers.”
“So do I.”
She opened a thick file.
“Your mother arrived here three years ago.”
Kyle frowned.
“Who admitted her?”
“A man named Robert.”
“My father.”
Linda nodded.
“He visited for the first few months.”
“And then?”
“He stopped.”
She slid several forms across the desk.
“We repeatedly asked him to update her emergency contacts.”
Kyle stared at the paperwork.
“My name isn’t here.”
“No.”
He looked confused.
“Then how did the police call me?”
Linda hesitated.
“They didn’t find your name here.”
She opened a small envelope.
“This was hidden inside your mother’s purse.”
She carefully unfolded a faded index card.
On one side was a little boy’s drawing of a house. On the other was a phone number.
Beneath it, written in shaky handwriting, were four words.
“My son. Never forget.”
Kyle covered his mouth.
“That’s my childhood phone number.”
“It had long been disconnected,” Linda said. “The police traced old records until they found you.”
Tears filled his eyes.
“She carried this all these years.”
Kyle traced the worn edges with his thumb.
“She carried this longer than she carried her own address.”
Linda nodded.
“She never forgot her little boy.”
When we returned home, Gladys was standing in the backyard.
Mia held her hand.
They were watching butterflies drift across the garden.
Gladys pointed toward an old oak tree.
“Kyle used to climb that.”
Kyle smiled sadly.
“I never lived here.”
Gladys looked confused.
Then she smiled again.
“Maybe not.”
That evening, after Gladys fell asleep, Kyle unlocked the small suitcase the assisted living center had returned with her belongings.
