For the first time, the wealthy man had nothing clever to say.

The old photograph shook in his hand while the guests slowly rose from their chairs, no longer entertained, no longer pretending not to listen. The boy stood in front of him, still holding the wooden flute, waiting for the face in the picture to become the man his mother had promised.

The man whispered, “Grace had a child?”

The boy’s eyes filled.

“She said you knew.”

The man looked at the photo again, then at the boy’s face, searching for the years he had lost.

“No,” he said, almost choking. “Her father told me she married someone else.”

The boy reached into his shirt and pulled out a small silver ring hanging from a string.

The man froze.

It was his ring.

The one he had given Grace before the war.

A woman at the table covered her mouth.

The boy whispered, “Mom said to give this back… if you didn’t want us.”

The man dropped to one knee in the grass, broken.

“Where is she?”

The boy looked toward the gate.

“In the clinic. She said today was her last chance to find you.”