Page 77 of Loving London

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But he did have many years with periods where he was still himself, and he wrote to you a lot.” She eyes the box once more.

The room is exploding with an uncomfortable silence, save for the breaths of its occupants. I pull in air as I try to process everything I just heard.

Esther clears her throat. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats.

“It’s okay,” I reassure her.

“I promised Jane I would look for you to let you know about her and Henry. I tried, but I didn’t know how. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to navigate through another country’s social services. Remember, this was before the Internet is the way it is now. There were phone calls and letters, neither of which proved to be of any use in finding you. I just hoped that you were raised by a nice family and that, someday, you’d come here for answers. And here you are.” She smiles warmly.

“Well, this cottage is yours. There’s account information in the box. All the bank accounts are in your name. There’s a pretty large life insurance policy that you can collect as well. I don’t know what your plans are, but my grandson will gladly keep this place up, if needed. I’ll write down my contact information for you and leave it on the table by the door in case you have any questions. I’ll just give you some time.” She nods and turns toward the door.

“Excuse me, Ms. Willis?” I ask before she leaves.

“Yes, dear?”

“Where is my grandfather exactly?”

“Oh.” She walks back in the room and pulls a pamphlet from inside the box. “He’s here.” She hands it to me and exits the room.

On the floor of the bedroom, London and I sit cross-legged amid a bunch of papers. There are official documents and personal letters from Nan, Granddad, and Ms. Willis.

“Look at this one.” I show London. “It was addressed to me when I was in New Hope, living with Dwight and Stacey. Do you think they are the ones who marked it withReturn to sender? Why would they have done that?”

The hurt little boy that so desperately wanted to know he was loved mourns within my soul.

“I don’t know.” London looks down at the letter in my hand. “There are such cruel people in this world.”

We continue reading letter after letter. I hear London sniffle, and I look over to find her wiping her eyes.

“They loved you so much, and all this time, you thought they didn’t.” Her voice breaks as she shakes her head. “It just breaks my heart. I can feel your Nan’s pain through her words. None of this is fair,” she says with a half-sob.

My heart thrums wildly. “No, it’s not.”

The evening is spent soaking in the memories my grandparents left me, and they left me a lot. Nan’s letters are full of stories about her and my grandfather when they were younger, my father growing up, and the tales of how my parents met, how they found me, and how they loved me.

In the few months she was able to fight her sickness, she documented a lifetime of memories. It’s the greatest gift she could have left me. For someone who has lived a life full of unanswered questions, finally gaining the facts of one’s heritage is an overwhelming and powerful experience.

I now have stories of a family that loved me and loved each other. I have a past and history that extends beyond torture and heartbreak. I plan to read these letters over and over again—not tonight, but soon. I want to cement my Nan’s beautiful words into my mind, turning them into memories, allowing them to shed light on all the dark corners of my mind.

London and I sit out on the back patio and listen to the waves from the sea as we eat a dinner of granola bars and water, which was what we had in the car. Neither of us has any interest in leaving the cottage tonight.

Years of love are penetrated into the walls, the furniture, the air; it’s almost tangible as it surrounds me. Maybe it’s finally having answers, perhaps it’s the letters or this cottage, or it’s a combination of all three, but I’ve discovered a sense of myself that I never knew was there.

Loïc

“It’s not England that’s magical; it’s life.”

—Loïc Berkeley

“You know what amazes me?” London asks on our drive to the nursing home that houses my granddad. Her question is rhetorical because she continues, “The cottage felt lived in even though no one had stayed there for years. I mean, the sheets smelled like they had been freshly washed. Nothing had dust on it. The air didn’t have the stale smell that abandoned places get.”

“Yeah.”

“I think Ms. Willis has been cleaning that cottage, waiting for you to come, for almost twenty years. That’s commitment.” She reaches over and places her hand on my thigh.

“You’re right. She could have been keeping it nice in memory of Nan, too. They were best friends,” I offer.

“It’s probably a little bit of both,” London agrees. “Are you feeling okay about today?”

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