My name is Lena. Six years ago I married Marcus in a courthouse with two witnesses. His mother, Helen, did not attend. She said the wedding was ‘a mistake she would not endorse.’
Six years of silence. Then last Sunday she called and invited us to dinner, and the warmth in her voice made me suspicious. Marcus wanted to go. He said maybe she had changed.
Her dining room was set for eight. Two chairs stood empty on her right, next to a woman in a green dress I had never met, and a bearded man who looked exactly like my husband.
Helen stood, tapped her glass with a spoon and smiled at me. ‘Tonight we welcome the real family to this table.’
Marcus set his glass down slowly. He looked at the two strangers, then at me. I saw a color drain from his face that I had never seen before.
‘Mother,’ he said. ‘What did you do?’
The bearded man stood up. ‘Marcus,’ he said, and his voice cracked. ‘I’m your brother.’
Marcus was adopted at four. He knew that much. He had never been told there was a brother, older by two years, sent to an aunt when the family broke apart.
Helen had spent six years searching for him. She had hired a private detective and written to eleven agencies. Two weeks ago she had found him, living three hours away, working as a carpenter.
‘I couldn’t invite you,’ she told Marcus, ‘until I had something to offer you besides an apology.’
She turned to me. ‘And I couldn’t sit at the same table as you until I could say I was wrong. The real family, Lena, is the one my son chose.’
She had set two extra chairs. One was for his brother. The other one, she said, was for me, and she had pulled it out herself.
I sat down. Marcus took my hand. His brother, Tomás, laughed and wiped his eyes and said, ‘I’ve heard you make an excellent lasagna.’
We have dinner at Helen’s every Sunday now. She always sets the table for eight, in case someone else turns up.
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