Gabriel and I eventually met in a quiet café halfway between our homes.
I recognized him immediately.
Not because I looked exactly like him.
I didn’t.
But he had my hands.
The same long fingers.
The same habit of pressing his thumbnail against the side of his index finger when nervous.
For nearly ten minutes, we talked about traffic.
Then he said, “I don’t know what to call myself.”
I understood.
“Gabriel is fine.”
Relief crossed his face.
“Okay.”
“I had a dad.”
“I know.”
“He loved me.”
“I’m glad.”
The answer came without jealousy.
That mattered more than I expected.
“I don’t want to replace him.”
“You couldn’t.”
“I know.”
He smiled faintly.
“That’s probably reassuring.”
“It is.”
We talked for three hours.
I didn’t leave with a new father.
I left with a man I wanted to know again.
That was enough.
Claire came to town that autumn.
