I stared at my hair in the mirror and muttered, “You are 62. Act like it.”
Then I called my hairdresser anyway.
The next day, after the final bell, Emily slipped into my classroom with a conspiratorial smile.
“He replied,” she whispered.
My heart jumped. “What did he say?”
I nodded before my fear could overtake me.
She showed me the screen.
“‘If it’s really her, please tell her I’d like to see her. I’ve been waiting a long time.’”
My throat tightened.
Emily said, “Saturday? Two p.m.? The café near the park?”
I nodded before my fear could overtake me. “Yes. Saturday.”
She typed quickly, then grinned. “He said yes. He’ll be there.”
What if the past is prettier than the truth?
Saturday came too fast.
I dressed carefully: soft sweater, skirt, my good coat. Not trying to look younger. Just trying to look like the best version of who I am now.
On the drive there, my mind was cruel.
What if he doesn’t recognize me? What if I don’t recognize him? What if the past is prettier than the truth?
The café smelled like espresso and cinnamon. Holiday lights blinked in the window.
And I saw him immediately.
But his eyes were the same.
Corner table. Back straight. Hands folded. Scanning the door like he didn’t trust luck.
His hair was silver now. His face had lines time had drawn in quietly.
But his eyes were the same.
Warm. Attentive. Slightly mischievous.
He stood the moment he saw me.
“Annie,” he said.
For a second we just stared at each other.
No one had called me that in decades.
“Dan,” I managed.
For a second, we just stared at each other, suspended between who we were and who we became.
He smiled—wide and relieved, like something inside him finally unclenched.
“I’m so glad you came,” he said. “You look wonderful.”
I snorted because I needed air. “That’s generous.”
“Why did you disappear?”
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