“Ten years from now, Christmas Eve, Times Square. I promise I’ll be there,” on prom night, Peter promised his high school sweetheart Sally.
He returned a decade later, full of hope. Instead of Sally, a young girl approached, carrying a devastating truth that would alter his life forever.
Peter tightened his grip on Sally’s hands, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles as if he could remember her touch. Her mascara had smudged from crying, leaving black lines on her flushed cheeks.
“I don’t want to go,” she said, her voice breaking.
“God, Sally, I don’t want you to go either. But some dreams are bigger than us.”
“What about our dream? What about everything we planned?” Her fingers intertwined with his.
“You must go,” Peter whispered. “Your family, your dreams… You’ve always wanted to study in Europe. I can’t hold you back. I won’t be the reason you shrink your world.”
He drew her closer, reducing the distance between them to nothing. “We’ll meet again,” he said calmly despite the pandemonium within.
“If we ever lose touch, promise me we’ll meet on Christmas Eve, ten years from now… at Times Square,” Sally whispered, a quivering smile forming between her tears. “I’ll be holding a yellow umbrella. That’s how you’ll find me.”
Sally laughed bitterly, tainted with grief. “Even if we’re married or have kids? You must come… just to talk. And to tell me that you’re happy and successful.”
They clutched one other in the center of the dance floor, the world swirling around them… two hearts beating in exquisite, painful synchrony, knowing that some goodbyes are merely grandiose see-you-laters.
Time moved like leaves on a breeze. Peter and Sally stayed in touch, mostly through letters. Then one day, she quit writing. Peter was crushed, but his desire to meet her kept him going.
Ten years later, Times Square was aglow with Christmas lights and a festive atmosphere.
His eyes darted across the crowd, looking for a flash of yellow.
Peter’s watch ticked away. First minutes, then an hour. The yellow umbrella remained a phantom, always just out of view. Suddenly, someone called out from behind.
The voice sounded soft and uncertain. He spun swiftly, his pulse hammering so hard he could hear the beat in his ears.
A small girl stood behind him, holding a yellow umbrella. Her brown locks surrounded her pale face, her eyes wide and unmistakably familiar as they met his.
“Are you Peter?” she inquired, this time gently as if frightened of breaking a delicate magic.
“Yes, I’m Peter. Who are you?”
“My name’s Betty,” she whispered. “She… she’s not coming.”
“What do you mean?” He questioned, “Who are you?” The words came out more like a plea than a question.
“I’M YOUR DAUGHTER,” she muttered. Tears filled her eyes. They were green—startlingly, indisputably green. The same color he remembered from a dance floor a decade prior.
“Mmm-My Daughter?” He pulled it off, even though he knew the response would change everything.
Before Betty could react, an elderly couple approached. The man was tall, his hair silver and the woman grasped his arm, her face kind but marked by a sorrow that appeared to have carved permanent lines around her eyes and mouth.
“Hello, Peter,” the man said, his voice deep and measured. “I’m Felix and this is my wife. We’re Sally’s parents. We’ve heard so much about you.”
The older woman’s lip quivered, a delicate movement that communicated volumes. “She pa:ss:ed two years ago. Can:cer.”
Betty’s small fingers tugged on Peter’s sleeve, providing a lifeline in a time of emotional turmoil. “Before she d.i.e.d, Mom told me you loved her like she was the most precious thing in the world,”
Mrs. Felix went forward with her hands clasped. “She found out she was pregnant with your child after she moved to Paris,” she explained. “She didn’t want to burden you. She knew your mother was sick, and you had so much on your plate. She thought you’d moved on, that you were happy.”
Mrs. Felix pulled a small, worn diary from her bag. “We found this after she passed,”
“She wrote about you, about how excited she was to see you again today… at this particular spot. That is how we knew. She… she never stopped loving you, Peter.”
A snapshot from their prom night dropped between the pages, showing young Sally and Peter caught in each other’s eyes, with the world around them serving as a soft, fuzzy backdrop.
Sally’s dreams, fears, and astonishing love are all conveyed within these frail pages. He looked up to meet Betty’s wide, nervous eyes. Sally’s energy and courage were held together by her eyes.
“You’re my daughter!” Peter whispered the words, which were simultaneously a revelation, a prayer, and a promise.
Peter drew her into an embrace, holding her as closely as he dared, as if he could shield her from whatever sorrow, loss, or uncertainty she may encounter.
They spoke for hours. Betty recounted to him stories that her mother had imparted.
Peter looked at Betty, her face a wonderful blend of astonishment and melancholy, a living reminder of the love he’d both lost and discovered. “I’m never letting you go,” he promised, his words precious. “Not until I d.i.e.”
She smiled, bashful but eager, and her green eyes — Sally’s — met his. “Promise?”
“I promise,” Peter said.
Over the next several months, Peter worked feverishly to bring Betty to the United States. He traveled to Europe frequently, spending time with Mr. and Mrs. Felix and visiting Sally’s grave.
On the anniversary of their first Christmas together, Peter and Betty stood at Sally’s grave. A bouquet of yellow roses lay on the stone, their petals gleaming against the clean snow… a burst of brightness, hope, and remembered love.
