Ana only anticipates a brief interaction as she shares her sandwich with a stranger. However, a knock on her door the following day reveals long-kept secrets. Ana must confront what it means to be lost and what it means to be found at last as grief and belonging collide.
Outside the store, I was sitting with my knees pushed together, holding a sandwich wrapped in paper on my lap as if it were illegal. Arman, my partner, was inside putting on three different iterations of the identical black garment.
For that sandwich, the one from the bakery with the navy walls, I had made the extra trip of two train stops. They only produced twenty of these each day: fennel slaw, herbed chicken, crisp bread that cracked like fire, and a lemony spread that smelt like deli nirvana.
I had intended to eat it on the bench there while Arman was busy, but I hadn’t been to this neighbourhood much since graduate school.
She then took a seat next to me.
The elderly woman moved with the deliberate dexterity of someone accustomed to expressing regret for her presence. Her hands remained folded in her lap, and her coat was shabby and buttonless. The ghost of black was still clinging to her largely grey hair, which was put up in a loose bun that appeared to have been started twice and abandoned.
My meal caught her attention.
Waiting, not watching.
She grinned when we looked at each other. She seemed to have been practicing invisibility for years because of the type of smile that was filled with both regret and desire.
Her words were, “Enjoy your meal, sweetheart,” “You look exactly like my granddaughter.”
“Really? “So, she must have been gorgeous,” I remarked, attempting to ease the strain that had begun to build up in my neck.
According to the woman, “Oh, she was,” Two and a half years ago, she passed away. Since then, I’ve just been… existing.”
I’m not sure why, but a picture of a dusty old shoebox hidden inside my winter coat suddenly appeared in my recollection. One I hadn’t considered for years.
I took a quick look at my image in the shop window. I had the typical flyaway curl that would not go away, along with freckles. I chuckled quietly because sometimes you can’t do anything but laugh when people pull you into their sorrow.
At the same time, something softened and stood within of me. I ripped the sandwich in two and presented it to them.
I said, “Are you hungry?”
Suddenly, as if she had been waiting for permission to cry, her eyes filled. She gave a modest, almost ashamed nod, as if hunger were a secret she had been discovered to possess.
I said, “Please,” and pressed the half into her hand. “As I dash inside to grab you some groceries, feel free to enjoy this. Ma’am, I’ll be right back.”
She hesitated, just touching the page with her fingers. “That’s too kind,” she said. “Please, don’t.”
“It’s not too kind, it’s just… human,” I answered.
She gave me a glance that was difficult to read. I couldn’t tell if it was uncertainty or thankfulness. However, it seemed as though she had already made up her mind not to stay. Nevertheless, she accepted the sandwich.
I picked up a basket inside the store and began to move instinctively. I added a carton of milk, apples, bananas, tea bags, muesli and canned soup. Next, a rye loaf. And yet another.
Her hands and the way she folded them kept coming back to me. After finishing, I ran across Arman, who was trying to find me.
He enquired, “Where did you go?”
I quickly informed him about the woman, attempting to find her amidst the crowds, but the bench was deserted. Only a tiny bit of crust was still present.
“She must have been shy,” Arman remarked softly. He kissed my temple and removed the grocery bag from my grasp. “Ana, you made an effort. And there are instances when that’s your only option.
Although my chest felt constricted, I nodded. I felt rejected, even though I hadn’t anticipated it. I couldn’t do more for her, not just because she was gone.
As I laid in bed that night, I kept thinking about the same line.
“You look exactly like my granddaughter.”
It had been years since I had opened the shoebox.
Dusting off the lid, I sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled it out. There were seemingly little items inside that contained whole chapters of a story I wasn’t familiar with. A photo torn neatly in half, a hospital bracelet, and a clipping from a craft show newspaper were all present. I was challenged to follow each fragment, which felt like a breadcrumb strewn across time.
A mother holding a baby was depicted in my half. Her hair was parted in the same way as mine. Her smile was gentle yet assured, as if she had a secret worth protecting. One word and a date were written in blue ink on the back: “Stay.”
I found myself looking at the picture for longer than I intended to. With my enquiries circling the ceiling, I went to sleep after tucking the box into the foot of my bed like a tiny, mute witness.
Someone knocked on the door the following afternoon.
The woman from the bench was standing on my porch when I opened it. That button was still absent from her coat.
Quickly, “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want you to spend money on me, so I left yesterday. Tamara is my name.
After looking down, she extended a tiny, glossy piece of paper.
She remarked, “But I had to be sure, sweetheart,” “I was gasping for air when I saw your face. I was certain I had seen you before. Perhaps not precisely you, but someone who resembles you.
The picture was taken by me. As soon as I spotted the edge, my fingers began to shake. It had the same scalloped cut, the same tear line as my own photo, and the remainder of the woman’s smile.
A match was played.
In my thoughts, my shoebox opened. After running to the bedroom, I located the box and took my part of the picture out from between a fading ribbon and an old envelope. The edges lined up as if they had been anticipating this moment when I pressed them together.
“Find. Stay.”
Arman entered from the kitchen, still carrying a dish towel over his shoulder, so I guess I made a noise. He glanced at the picture in my trembling hands, then at me, then at the woman.
Gently, “What’s going on?” he enquired.
After approaching, he put his hand between my shoulder blades.
Simply put, “I think this means something,” I said.
Tamara responded, “It does,” from the corridor. It indicates that I have a message for you. But may I enter first?”
I gave her a nod, and she entered as if unsure whether to do so. We made tea because, when something enormous is happening and you need your hands to do something tiny, that’s what you do.
She continued, “I know it’s strange that I came here,” after we took a seat. “I trailed behind you after you left the store. I waited close to the coffee shop I knew was close to your house, but I was unable to knock until now.
She hesitated.
“I realise that sounds strange. But I was out of breath when you gave me the sandwich. It was more than just goodwill. It was acknowledgement. And I discovered the picture once more when I returned to my flat. I mean, the other part.
She repeated, “My name is Tamara.” “Her grandmother, I am… was. Alina. Your sister, your twin. Daria, my daughter, gave birth to twins. Sweetheart, she was young, destitute, and alone. Because she was unable to raise two children, she tragically decided to place you with a family that could provide you with the kind of life she was unable to.”
“My parents always told me that I was adopted,” I replied. “I never kept it a secret. My birth mother was described as young and grieving. However, nobody ever mentioned a sibling.
“Alina knew,” Tamara remarked while sipping her tea. However, we didn’t discuss it much. She also created a list on her most recent birthday. ‘Find my sister.’ was the first thing on it.
Arman gave me a startled expression.
Tamara went on to say, “She also made a kindness list,” “Every weekend, one modest deed. She trailed off, “We were in Week Nine when…”
“What was Week Nine?” I enquired.
She stated, “To pay for someone else’s groceries,” with tears in her eyes. “We argued whether a sandwich counted.”
Arman gave my shoulder a light squeeze.
“I’m going to give you both the room,” he said.
“No,” answered Tamara hastily. “Remain. Ana urgently needs your participation in this.
We spoke for more than an hour. About Alina, who painted a bright yellow on one of the kitchen walls because she felt it made the space feel cosier. And how, when she felt anxious, she hummed. When Tamara volunteered at a soup kitchen on Sundays, she inadvertently accidentally brought home someone’s dog because she thought it was missing.
Oh, and how she attempted to eat mangoes despite having an allergy to them.
“She didn’t believe in giving up on the things she loved,” Tamara stated.
Like a patchwork made from two completely different materials that nevertheless fit together, her certainty encircled me.
I had a tight throat, but I grinned. It seemed like a pebble being thrown into a deep well with each little tale about Alina. Yes, it created ripples, but the sound could not return because the well was too deep.
After a while, I voiced the question I hadn’t dared to ask before.
“How about Daria? How about my biological mother?
Looking down into her tea, Tamara looked.
She died shortly after Alina’s tenth birthday. I believe the grief began long before the doctors said it was her heart. She was delicate and compassionate, my dear. Furthermore, she never quite forgiven herself for her choice. She did, however, adore you both. And she was constantly curious about you.
For the remainder of the day, the queue stuck with me.
I gave my mother, Kate, a call later that night. She was the one who stayed up with me all night before tests, the one who stitched my plush bear’s arms back on three different occasions after our dog tore them off.
I told her everything. hurried at first, then more slowly. I was aware that she was listening. She didn’t interrupt, though. Nor did she ask any questions. As I poured truth after truth into the quiet, she simply clung to it.
She was silent for a few seconds after I was done.
“Come over,” she murmured.
I said, “I’ll bring Tamara,”
“Yes, sweetheart, of course. She added, “And bring all the pieces.” “Bring your shoebox.”
We were driven to my mother’s house by Arman. Although we didn’t say much, our quiet had a certain serenity.
Before we knocked at my mom’s house, the front door flew open. She pulled me into a familiar embrace. Then, as if she had known Tamara for ages, she turned to her and gave her the same embrace without hesitation.
“I’m Kate,” she stated in a kind tone.
“I’m Tamara,” was the rather apprehensive response. “Thank you for having me.”
“Of course,” responded my mother. “If you’re important to Ana’s story, then you need to be right here.”
We entered the kitchen. It was the same kitchen where I had sobbed over maths assignments and iced cupcakes for school bake sales. My mother set out cups of tea and a platter of shortbread cookies.
I took off both sides of the picture.
“I didn’t know,” remarked my mom. “We were not informed about a twin by the agency. According to them, the mother wanted to give her child a chance at life because she was young and scared. I would never have advocated for a closed adoption if I had known that you had a sibling, a twin… baby. I would have informed you. I hope you are aware of that.
“I do,” I blurted out. “I know you would have.”
Nothing was ever something I wanted to hide from you. I convinced Dad to tell you about the adoption when you were sixteen because of this.
“I don’t think anyone kept anything from me, Mom,” I answered softly. “I think life just… kept it from all of us until we were ready.”
When Tamara said, “She said something like that, your sister,” she smiled. “That if she ever found you, it would be because the world thought it was time.”
I blinked to keep my eyes from stinging.
My mother said, “How are you really feeling, sweetheart?”
Sincerely, “I don’t know how I feel,” I said. “Thankful? Feeling guilty? Bewildered? I lost a whole life that I was unaware I was meant to have. And I don’t want the life I did spend with you to be diminished by that.”
“You don’t have to divide your heart to make room for all of this,” she said to me. “There’s enough space for everything, Ana.”
The one who brought me up and the one who linked me to the beginning were the two women I glanced at.
“I feel like I’ve been walking around with only half the picture,” I replied. “And now that I have the whole thing… I don’t even know what to do with it.”
According to my mother, “you don’t have to know today,” “You just have to let it live with you.”
We started going to each other’s houses like archaeologists during the course of the following week. Tamara led a modest existence with little possessions. The scent of tea and bitter melon wafted through her small flat. A collage of Alina’s life was displayed on her wall.
One picture showed Alina with a sandwich bag in each hand as she stood under a skewed bakery awning.
“She called them’suspended sandwiches,'” Tamara clarified. “You just take one, but you pay for both. After then, the second one remains on the tally and is taken by someone in need.
We revisited that bakery. When she spotted me, the owner froze.
“Alina?” she said in a whisper.
“No,” I replied. “Her sister is me. Ana, her twin.
We made careful to leave two for the person in need when we ordered Alina’s suspended sandwiches.
Three blocks from our house, Arman and I strolled to the small gelato kiosk later that week. It was the one with the string lights and the umbrella. He placed a pistachio order. I got lemon, familiar and sharp.
For a while, we strolled silently. Then I spoke as we were passing the shuttered florist shop.
When I said, “I keep thinking about her,”
He didn’t enquire as to who.
Further, “My sister,” I added. “And Daria. Even though I never met them, I still feel as though I lost something genuine. I feel depressed. I have no idea how to describe it.
He added, “You don’t have to,” and nudged my elbow lightly with his.
I went on, “But at the same time,” “I feel as though a part of me has come together. As if something I was unaware was lacking had now arrived.
“And Tamara?” Arman enquired.
“She’s already fighting with my coffee shop’s barista, sweetie. That, in my opinion, officially establishes her as my grandmother in every sense of the word.
After chuckling, he put his hand in mine. There was nothing more we said. We didn’t have to. Knowing where you’re from and who you get to go home with can sometimes be the nicest part of life, and it has nothing to do with gelato.
The journey ahead felt more like arrival than a meandering one for the first time in years.
