PART 3 — The address in the rain
Evening fell quickly and heavily over the Dutch street. The rain, which had drizzled softly in the afternoon, turned into a harsh autumn storm lashing against the windows. Inside the living room, a single table lamp burned. The light shone faintly on the table where that extra plate still stood. For twenty years. But tonight I no longer saw that plate as a symbol of steadfastness or mourning; it looked like a monument to my own stubbornness.
What should I do? I knew where she lived—or at least, in which neighborhood Daan had situated our conversation. Three streets away, in that old complex of social housing on the edge of the canal. The same neighborhood we used to walk through when Emma was still a little girl who put her hand in mine and wasn't afraid of the dark evenings. I walked to the hallway, opened the coat closet, and retrieved my old raincoat.
The scent of mothballs and old leather greeted me. It was a coat I had worn for years only for funerals and mandatory grocery runs at the supermarket. Now I put it on, zipped it up to my chin, and searched for my sturdy walking shoes. My heart pounded in my throat. My hands trembled as I opened the front door and the cold wind struck my face. The streets were deserted; everyone was sitting warm inside by the heater, protected by thick walls and cozy family ties.
Only I walked there, an old woman with a bowed back and a leaden conscience, heading toward a past I had locked away for so long. The wind howled around the corners of the houses. Rainwater dripped from my hair down my cheeks, but I barely felt it. My thoughts were entirely consumed by a single image: the moment Emma walked out the door. Would she hate me?
After twenty years of silence and distance, could one ever return to a mother who had cast you out into the cold at nineteen? After a ten-minute walk, I stood before the complex. The building was gray and gloomy, illuminated by a flickering streetlamp that made a buzzing sound in the night. I looked up at the rows of windows. Which apartment was hers?
Which window looked out onto the same street where I had been sitting and waiting all these years? Then I saw it. On the second floor, a warm yellow light was burning. Behind the glass, I saw the silhouette of a woman cooking. She moved quietly, with the same graceful, bowed shoulders I knew from photographs and distant observations. Emma. It had to be her.
I walked to the central entrance, found the call panel, and searched for her last name. E. Harvey . No husband’s name, no hyphenated name. Just her own name. The name I had given her. My finger hovered over the button. My breath caught in my throat. If I pressed it now, there would be no turning back. The illusion of the proud, untouchable mother would vanish forever.
I would have to confess that I was wrong. That I had been a coward all these years. With a jerk, I pressed the bell. A buzzing sound echoed through the intercom system. And then I heard her voice, clear and unmistakable through the small speaker. “Yes? Who is there?”
