Eleanor loved you. I knew that. She would check in at the orphanage from time to time.”
“She asked about me?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” Margaret said, smiling.
“She kept track, as best she could. She couldn’t be in your life, but she made sure you were safe.”
Father Michael’s heart ached.
“I spent my life thinking that she’d abandoned me. And all this time, she… she was watching from a distance?”
“She didn’t forget you.
It broke her heart, Father. She loved you in her own, quiet way. She just had to do this because it was either this or… who knows what your grandfather would have done.”
She’d loved him, even if he’d never felt it, even if she’d never told him herself.
In the weeks that followed, Eleanor’s family decided to embrace Father Michael with cautious but open arms.
Anna became a steady presence at the rectory, often stopping by with scones or muffins and ever-ready to fill him in on family stories, recounting memories of Eleanor.
One afternoon, as Father Michael sat in his office, Anna came by with a small, worn photo album.
“I thought you might want this,” she said, placing it in his hands. “It’s… all the photos we have of Mom. Maybe they’ll help you piece her together.”
The next day, Father Michael found himself at Eleanor’s grave.
“I forgive you,” he said.
“And I thank you for watching over me.”
