Why did she wake up so early? There’s no need to go to work anymore, no one to cook breakfast for, the cat hasn’t come back in a week, and yet sleep has completely vanished from her eyes. So, what’s left?
Those memories again. They didn’t used to be so persistent, so relentlessly intrusive, but now they’ve seized control and surface whenever they please.
Two days ago, she saw her son, his wife, and their little grandson off to another country. For a whole year, they’d been talking, trying to convince her to go with them. Even her little grandson, looking up at her with pleading eyes, had begged:
— Grandma, come with us.
If only they knew what it cost her to stand her ground.
That was the thing—she always wanted to, and could, stand her ground. Later, she’d regret it a hundred times but never admit she was wrong.
Gentle, always tactful Emily, with her voice shifting in tone, had told her several times:
— That’s not pride, that’s hubris.
Emily, Emily… Tell someone you could become friends like that, and they wouldn’t believe it.
At first, the woman just felt unwell, taking some pills, drinking tea with raspberries and honey, limiting showers. But she still went to work—quarterly reports didn’t care about sick leave, and the company was just getting off the ground. In the proudly named but understaffed finance department, she was the only one. She handled all the accounting and economics, knowing the company could only survive this way. If it survived, the staff would grow to match the company’s launch. She had a direct stake in it, being both a partner and the wife of the company’s owner, so letting down someone so close to her was unthinkable. He worked day and night himself, and if it weren’t for the thermoses of sandwiches and meatballs she brought to his office daily, he’d have burned out for sure. Instead, she was the one who burned out.
She gave in when her fever wouldn’t fit on the thermometer, everything swam before her eyes, and, worst of all, colors disappeared. It was like a black-and-white movie—no hues, no shades. She flatly refused an ambulance, so her husband drove her to the local clinic. How he managed it, she didn’t know, but a doctor saw her without a wait. The doctor examined her, listened, and sent her with a nurse to the treatment room. There, she got two injections, a prescription, and strict orders to get a slew of tests done the next morning. She felt better after the shots, slept through the evening and night, and in the morning, her husband drove her back to the clinic for the tests. He rushed off to the company afterward. They agreed to talk once she was done.
At the appointment, the doctor kept studying the test results, turning the papers this way and that. She sensed something was wrong and, as always, cut to the chase:
— Doctor, give it to me straight.
Straight up, one test showed she was in serious trouble. Without hearing the doctor out, she left the office. She walked out of the clinic entirely, imagining everything that would come next. She suddenly craved a cigarette, right there on the clinic’s doorstep. Cigarettes were her lifeline when things got unbearable.
Bypassing the clinic building, she ended up in the back courtyard, where there was a service entrance with steps. She hobbled to the steps, sat down, and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. Two puffs, and tears came. Not just tears—a wailing sob. She didn’t even know she was capable of this. It wasn’t like her at all. Back in college, they called her Thatcher, but now she was a mess.
The door opened, and a young woman—maybe a nurse, maybe an aide—approached and asked:
— What’s wrong with you?
She didn’t care who it was. She just needed to say out loud what the test showed, and she did. Then the hysterics took over.
After so many years. All those years of holding it together. Never imagining something like this could happen to her.
How that stranger, that young girl in a white coat, knew what to do was a mystery. But she grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her sharply, and when that didn’t work, slapped her. Now they sat side by side on the steps, and she, calmed down, told her about the test. That girl didn’t let up until two more tests were done, disproving the first.
Days later, Emily—the nurse—told her about the lab’s fallout: the head of the lab was fired, a technician reprimanded. But she didn’t care about those details anymore. There was joy, pure and real, like the kind she felt as a child meeting her mother after a long trip.
From then on, Emily became part of her life, an indispensable part. Emily’s own life was the kind you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.
She grew up with her grandfather; her grandmother had died before she was born. She didn’t remember her parents, though they existed. Her mother, her grandfather’s daughter, gave birth to her before finishing high school and never revealed the father. She wanted to leave Emily at the maternity ward, but her grandfather wouldn’t allow it. He rallied the factory’s party committee back then and secured custody.
Of course, he thought about his wayward daughter, searched for her, but she’d vanished. So Emily became his light in the window. She had a good life with her grandfather. He knew all her friends, always let them visit, and the girls loved her grandpa.
But as he told her with tears in his eyes after that incident:
— I didn’t protect you, Emmy.
And the incident was something unforgettable…
Emily was walking home from music school, hopping over puddles, swinging her new folder of sheet music. She was almost home when three guys surrounded her. One covered her mouth, another grabbed her, and the third just walked alongside, giggling disgustingly. As soon as they reached a nearby construction site, it began…
Then came pain, humiliation, the urge to throw herself under a car…
She might have, maybe without even thinking of her grandfather, but there were no cars. Emily made it home, and her grandfather, opening the door, understood everything instantly. He grabbed the phone, but Emily fell to her knees, begging him not to tell anyone. She couldn’t bear the shame…
Emily got pregnant. The women’s clinic confirmed it, though no belly was visible. She just felt someone inside her. That someone didn’t stay long.
At five months, an ambulance took Emily with sharp pains. On the way to the operating room, she remembered the doctors scolding her for not coming sooner. The fetus was stillborn. They operated, and afterward, they told the 16-year-old girl she’d never have children.
— We’ll live on, granddaughter, to spite those monsters, — her grandfather said when he took her home.
He so wanted Emily to become a doctor. He said her grandmother had dreamed of healing people but never got the chance. His daughter hardly dreamed of anything.
Emily enrolled in medical school, which soon became a university, and no one, except her grandfather, knew about that vacant lot or that she’d never be a mother.
But Emily didn’t become a doctor. She left medical school after her third year, buried her grandfather, and left. Neither her knowledge nor medical technology could stop the blood clot that killed him instantly.
Emily got a job at the city clinic, first as an aide, then certified as a nurse.
That’s where they met and became friends. Emily became a frequent guest in their home, respected by her husband. He quickly found common ground with her, and when they learned they were expecting, Emily became their main advisor. She also became godmother to George. He was convinced Emily—or Emmy, as he called her—was the most important relative. If there was ever any tension between them, it was about church.
Emily attended every service but never pushed them to join. They were only in church together for George’s baptism. But they’d say to each other:
— If it makes Emily feel better, let her go.
And yet, she went to church with Emily. She went on September 12, 2001, and prayed as best she could for her husband, who had flown to the States in late August for a meeting with American partners. He was supposed to meet several companies, and if all went well, sign cooperation agreements. He called home every day, adjusting to their time zone, and she knew that on Tuesday, September 11, he had a meeting in New York at the World Trade Center.
At 9 a.m. local time, it was to be his final meeting, in the South Tower—the one hit first by a hijacked plane.
It happened on a Tuesday. On Tuesday, Wednesday, and the days that followed, her husband didn’t call or return. Diplomats got involved in the search, then the company’s lawyer went, but to this day, nothing is known about her husband or his American partners.
A year later, she flew to New York herself. She went to where the Twin Towers once stood—or should have stood. In their place, at the foundation, were two pools. It was so strange and terrifying to look at, and nearby, the rebuilt World Trade Center was already taking shape. The outline of the Freedom Tower was visible.
She stood, looked, and tried to imagine: Did her husband realize what happened? Did he sense the danger? Did he have time to think of her and George? She wanted him to have understood nothing, felt nothing, even if it meant not thinking of her and George. No one could have imagined what happened that day. Now she’d have to imagine it for the rest of her life. And all this time, even now, a flicker of hope remained that he might have survived—lost his memory, injured, maybe his appearance changed. But she never let him go. How did she endure it?
George and Emily helped. Yes, dozens of people who knew her husband offered sympathy and support, but George and Emily were her rock, day and night. That’s when she learned how fragile that rock could be, especially for George, who didn’t need help the way she did. He took his father’s death so hard that he started stuttering, screaming at night, often unable to hold things. She and Emily took turns taking him to a psychologist, physical therapy, and a speech therapist.
It took a long time to treat George, but after a year and a half, he began to recover. Emily prayed for him in church, too. She didn’t say it, but it was obvious. Emily kept reminding her not to let the company slide—for her husband’s sake, for George’s. Of course, she was right. If she hadn’t thrown herself into work back then, who knows where George would be today? She’d manage, but George—she was doubly responsible for him. Thank God, her son never gave her reason to be ashamed. Worry, yes…
Yes, she worried, with or without reason. She managed to hide it, except from Emily. Emily worried, too—George was dear to her as well. And he probably guessed it was thanks to Emmy that he and his family were now living and working overseas. A branch of his father’s company was already operating there, and now George would lead it.
Before George left, she visited the company office one last time. When everyone gathered, she did something she hated—she gave a speech. She thanked them for always being there, for carrying on her husband’s work successfully, and now doing so without her. She wasn’t leaving with George but would step back from running the company, staying on the board. She and George would always be available. For now, she thanked everyone again and ended her work.
They saw her off warmly. She knew there was no pretense or hypocrisy. In thanking her, they were also thanking her husband. And now what?
Here it was, the first day of complete freedom. What to do with this freedom? She knew stopping abruptly after running so long was dangerous—she might not handle it. She’d been running for years, with a purpose, and now, just like that…
But no one pushed her to this. As always, she decided it herself.
George calls, reporting they’ve settled in. Everything’s fine, and he asks her to stay in touch in the evening, her time. It’d be great if Emmy could join, too. They already miss her.
She reassures her son, saying she’s sleeping well, walking around in a tracksuit, finishing unread books. For now, she’s enjoying it.
After they hang up, she calls Emily, who apologizes—she’s with people and can’t talk now. She’ll call back later.
Emily calls back, happy to hear George is okay, but quickly ends the call, saying she’s busy again.
“Why’s Emily so busy?” she wonders, recalling which shift Emily should be working.
Turns out, she’s right—Emily is busy. It’s her shift.
She forces herself to pause and not call Emily. The pause stretches to ten days and would’ve been longer if not for George. He called late at night, apologized for the hour, and said he’d just sent two containers of office supplies and children’s items. They’re for Emmy, but he couldn’t reach her, so he asks her to let Emmy know. Once the cargo arrives at the port, it’ll be sent to them, to the church’s address. He’s already paid for delivery. His company helped gather it all, and this won’t be the last shipment. More will come.
What’s this? Emily knows, George and his family know, the American company knows, but she’s completely in the dark. No, she needs to sort this out.
In the morning, she calls Emily.
— Subscriber unavailable, — the automated voice replies.
— Oh, really?
Well, she hasn’t forgotten how to walk. So, straight to Emily’s workplace, where they tell her Emily Watson took two weeks of unpaid leave. Another surprise, and not a word to her. So, to Emily’s house—surely she wouldn’t take leave for no reason. Something must be wrong. Now real worry sets in.
Emily wasn’t home. Thank goodness for the neighbors on the bench. They said Emily Watson left early that morning. To church, she guessed, and headed there.
While the morning service went on, she waited outside. Emily had to come out eventually.
And Emily did, but not alone—she was surrounded by eight preschool-aged children, by the looks of it. The girls wore headscarves like Emily; the boys had none. Emily saw her and approached with the kids.
— I’m so glad you came, — Emily said. — Come with us.
She didn’t want to argue in front of the children and followed. They entered a new log house with a spacious entryway, coat racks, a door likely to a bathroom, and two others. One led to a kitchen, the other to three connected rooms: a classroom and two bedrooms. Everything was clean, smelling of wood. The furnishings were simple but, as far as she could tell, sufficient.
— Kids, look at the coloring books for now while we talk, — Emily told the children, and they went to the classroom. — Don’t be mad, — Emily said to her. — I’ll explain everything.
Emily explained that the church, or rather the parish, had received official permission to open a children’s shelter. Sponsors donated the house, a construction trust provided utilities as charity, and a boarding school shared furniture. Now, ten children—orphans—could legally stay here, though there were eight for now. They’d study the public school curriculum with elements of a church-parish school, also approved. The metropolitan himself had advocated for it, and Emily was part of the initiative from the start. Now she was deciding what to do next. If she worked here full-time, she’d have to leave the clinic.
— What do you think? — Emily asked her.
— I don’t know… — For the first time, she wasn’t afraid to seem unsure. — I came to you about something else, too. George sent two containers—now I understand for whom. Tell me when they arrive, and I’ll help.
— Oh, thank George! I’ll call him. It’ll be just in time for school.
Emily was thrilled, but then a girl approached with a question:
— Miss Emily, the paints won’t open.
— You go, Emily, — she said. — We’ll talk later.
She couldn’t sleep for a long time. She’d spoken with George, his wife, and her grandson, who recited a counting rhyme in English. Everything seemed fine, but sleep wouldn’t come. She gave in and took a sleeping pill—rare for her, but tonight seemed like the night. The pill worked. She fell asleep in her robe—or did she? Because her husband sat beside her…
It was definitely him. She’d seen him off at the airport like that, only now with more gray at his temples and tired eyes.
— I keep thinking about it, too, — he said, as if continuing a conversation. — What does it matter what nationality they are? They’re still children. Do you know how many orphans were left after that black Tuesday, September 11? It wasn’t just us who died, not just those inside the towers at the World Trade Center. How many were under the rubble? Among the firefighters? On the planes? There were just passengers who had no idea what was about to happen. We decided right away to help the orphaned kids, started gathering them. They didn’t want to come—they kept calling for their moms and dads. It seemed impossible, but we did it. And you’ll do it, too. You’re not alone—you’ve got Emily, George, my grandson. Does he look even a little like me?
She jolted upright, reaching to touch her husband and say, yes, their grandson looks so much like him, but no one was there. What was that?
She’d never dreamed before. Was it a dream? She could still smell his favorite cologne in the room. Maybe it wasn’t a dream? She got up, turned on the light in the bedroom, then the whole apartment. No, she was alone. But why alone? There was George, his family, Emily…
And suddenly, she understood why her husband appeared and what he wanted to say. She, who never believed in an afterlife, now knew what she had to do. She knew what her husband did or would have wanted to do—he’d have cared for orphaned children, no matter where they were from. That’s what he was telling her.
Finally, morning.
She calls Emily, asks her to wait, says she’s coming over, and they’ll go to the church shelter together. Emily, judging by her silence, doesn’t know what to say. Then she says:
— I’m waiting for you.
She barely says hello before telling Emily about last night and says:
— I understood what he wanted to tell me.
Emily looks at her and stays silent.
— Can I work with you at this school, at least half the day? Then you wouldn’t have to quit the clinic. Can we try?
Emily hugs her.
— Try? You’ll manage everything. Just come, observe for now. Although…
— Emily, I know what you’re going to say—you can’t just “try” with kids, especially these ones. Yes, I’m not you, I don’t sugarcoat things, but I won’t harm these kids. Believe me?
— Stop it! — Emily, who never raised her voice, snapped. — You’ll do it all. Just try not to cry when they tell you something from their past. Yes, try not to cry—even a man couldn’t handle it.
Sadly, she didn’t fully follow Emily’s advice. When the kids, during play or lessons, recalled something, she wanted to find their abusers and kill them, literally kill them. Because people don’t do that. All she could do was step out of the classroom for a moment so the kids wouldn’t see her tears or drop a pen on purpose to bend down and hide them.
Now she couldn’t imagine life without these kids. Across the ocean, every evening, George and his family listened to her stories. Her daughter-in-law openly cried, and her grandson held up his favorite toys to the screen, asking:
— Will your kids like this dinosaur? This Winnie the Pooh?
One evening, when it was just her and George on the call—his wife had taken their son to bathe—George asked:
— Mom, did Emmy recruit you?
And she told him about her waking dream. About his father sitting beside her, talking about how he’s now responsible for orphaned children, somewhere out there.
George was quiet, then said:
— Mom, Dad came to me in a dream, too, saying the same thing. Then Emmy told me about the church shelter. I immediately decided to organize help, and you know, everyone at the company pitched in—even the young programmers who usually just joke around. Before I left, Emmy and I didn’t want to tell you, honestly, because we were afraid you wouldn’t support us. So, what was that? Tell someone, they’d call it mysticism, and I still don’t know what it was.
— I know it was your father.
— So, I guess it’s pointless to ask you to come here? — George asked.
— Don’t be mad, son, but I can’t right now. You and your family are confident, smart, unharmed. These kids aren’t. Emily and I will try to give them confidence, a normal life. Come visit us on vacation. You’ll love my kids.
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