Jego oczy napełniły się łzami. „Mówią mi, że mam jego oczy”.
Wtedy babcia zauważyła list w jego drugiej ręce. Jej wyraz twarzy zmienił się w chwili, gdy zobaczyła na nim pismo. Jej dłoń odsunęła się od jego policzka.
Powoli rozłożył kartkę i obrócił ją w jej stronę. Wpatrywała się w nią, zakryła usta i zaczęła płakać.
„Mój ojciec miał na imię Andrzej”
The man stepped inside. I called my mother and uncle and told them to come immediately. By the time they arrived, Grandma was sitting on the couch, the unread letter resting in her lap, the stranger still standing near the window holding his flowers.
“Would somebody please explain what is happening?” my mother asked, looking between them.
The man cleared his throat. “My name is Michael,” he said. “My father was Andrew.”
The room went completely silent. My uncle frowned. “Who is Andrew?”
Grandma looked down at the letter without opening it yet. “My younger brother,” she said quietly.
My mother sat down slowly. “You had a brother? You never once mentioned him.”
“I was told not to,” Grandma said.
The Choice Her Father Gave Him
Michael set the wildflowers down on the table. Grandma looked toward the front window, gathering herself before she spoke.
“My father left home when he was seventeen,” she said. “He wanted to become a musician. Our father wanted him working at the family store instead. Andrew played trumpet anywhere people would let him — school dances, church halls, restaurants that only paid him in sandwiches.” Despite everything, she smiled faintly at the memory. “He could hear a song once and play it straight back, note for note.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Our father gave him a choice,” Grandma said. “Stay home, work the store, stop wasting time on music. Or leave, and don’t expect any help from us.”
“And Andrew left?” my mother asked.
“That same night,” Grandma said.
She’d been twenty-three then, already engaged to Grandpa. She wanted to go after her brother immediately, but her father insisted Andrew would come crawling back once he got hungry enough. So she stayed behind and kept watching for him instead. “I wrote to him,” she said. “Every week, at first. Then every month.”
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