“Yes, I’m Peter,” he said, voice barely steady. “Who are you?”
“My name is Betty,” she whispered. “Mom said I’d find you here.”
Peter’s breath hitched. “Mom? Sally?”
Betty nodded, her gaze dropping. “She… she’s not coming. She passed away two years ago.”
The words hit him like a punch, and his legs faltered. “No… that can’t be true.”
Before he could respond, an older couple approached. The man’s silver hair and the woman’s sorrowful face were unmistakable.
“Peter,” the man said gently. “I’m Felix, Sally’s father. This is my wife. We’ve heard so much about you.”
Peter’s voice cracked. “Why didn’t she tell me? About Betty? About everything?”
Mrs. Felix stepped forward. “Sally didn’t want to burden you. She found out she was pregnant after moving to Paris. She thought you’d moved on, and with your mother’s illness, she didn’t want to add to your pain.”
Betty tugged on Peter’s sleeve, her voice cutting through his grief. “Before she died, Mom told me you loved her more than anything. She said you’d keep your promise.”
Peter knelt down, pulling Betty into a hug as tears streamed down his face. “I never stopped loving her,” he whispered. “And I’ll never stop loving you.”
Mrs. Felix handed Peter a worn diary, Sally’s name embossed on the cover. “She wrote this for you,” she said softly. “Her dreams, her regrets, her love for you—it’s all in here.”
Peter’s hands trembled as he opened the diary, filled with memories, reflections, and longing. Tucked between the pages was a photograph from prom night—Sally and Peter, smiling as if they held the world in their hands.
In the months that followed, Peter devoted himself to Betty. He brought her to the U.S., transforming his quiet apartment into a home filled with laughter and warmth. Each night, he told her stories of Sally—their love, their dreams, and the strength she had passed down to her daughter.
On their first Christmas together, Peter and Betty visited Sally’s grave. A bouquet of yellow roses lay on the pristine snow, a tribute to the love that endured time, distance, and death.
“Mom used to say yellow was the color of new beginnings,” Betty whispered, her small hand in Peter’s.
“She was right,” Peter said, his voice thick with emotion. “And she’d be so proud of you.”
As they stood together, Peter realized that though he had lost Sally, he had gained something just as precious—a part of her that would live on in Betty. In her laughter, her courage, and her love, Sally remained. And as Peter looked at his daughter, he knew their story wasn’t one of loss, but of enduring love and new beginnings.