text: A breeze brushes against my face and it’s not until now that I realize my cheek is wet. Strands of hair stick to my hand as I wipe the tears away. Now my fingertips are cold. I predicted the meeting would be filled with emotion but hadn’t thought I’d actually cry. Especially not at this point. I wasn’t even at Penn’s Landing yet. The toe of my shoe catches on a loose Belgian block in the street and a young man rushes to hold my elbow. “Are you okay?” His expression is kind and I try not to be distracted by his pierced cheeks. “Yes, thanks, just not paying attention.” After waiting more than two decades for this, how could I shift my focus elsewhere? Of course I wasn’t paying attention to the Belgian blocks in front of Independence Hall. There were bigger thoughts - much bigger - that were spinning in my mind. Paul had been a great father and I loved him. He cheered for me when I was a spelling bee contender. He shouted every time I scored a goal at a soccer match. And he glowed with pride at my college graduation from the University of Pennsylvania. But I never knew until Mom died that he’d been my step-father. I’m not even sure why he told me, but he did. Tearfully, about a week after Mom’s funeral. Initially, I didn’t believe him. It was absurd. How could Dad not be my father? It didn’t make sense. But there was something in his expression, in his words, and in his shaking hands that told me he was telling the truth. Paul’s truth held few details, though. He didn’t know my father’s name, only that Mom had dated him before Paul met her. Against his parents wishes, he married her when she was five months pregnant on a sunny day at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church on South 10th Street.. Her bridal bouquet had been filled with white roses and blue delphinium, he’d remembered. When I learned that my birth father was someone other than Paul, I silently gave my grandparents credit for never having treated me any differently than they did my cousins. At some point, they must have decided to embrace me in the family, like a baby bird being protected in stronger wings. From Paul’s revelation until now, it was a blur of late-night online research and sending in DNA samples to perhaps not always legitimate sites. But what was someone shady going to do with my DNA? Make a clone? I would be flattered. The pressing and inexplicable need to connect with my birth father went far deeper. As years with no leads passed, I felt increasingly desperate to find him, to meet with him, to look at his face. And that was going to happen in about 10 minutes. I pressed my red Kate Spade cross-body against my hip as I quickly crossed Walnut Street. I would be seeing him any minute now. He knew I’d have a red pocketbook. I knew he’d be wearing a red scarf on this blustery October afternoon. My feet moved more quickly than I wanted them to... past the Seaport Museum and towards the Viewing Deck. A long and hard gust of wind blew in from the Delaware River and I pulled my gray peacoat tighter. How odd it was that I didn’t feel ready to meet the one person I’d waited almost half my life to meet. It had been a slightly awkward email, but I’d hit Send before I had a chance to edit it: To: James Collingwood From: Sarah Woodword Subject: DNA Test Match Hello James! I’m sure you realized, as I did, that we’re an almost exact match on FamilyDNATree! Looking at their report, you will see as I did, that all the science indicates that you are my biological father. I have been looking for you for over two decades and it would mean so much to meet you in person. I only want to know who you are as a person and to hear what family stories you’d be willing to share. I was born, raised, and currently live in Philadelphia. Are you still in the area? Would you be interested in meeting me? I’ve been searching for you for over twenty years, since my mother (Kimberly Hart Woodward) passed. It would mean the world to me. Best regards, Sarah Had it been too emotional? Too filled with expectations? Those questions, and more, haunted me for a year. And then James Collingwood replied to my email. To: Sarah Woodword From: James Collingwood Subject: Meeting Would you like to meet at the Viewing Deck at Penn’s Landing at 2pm on Friday, October 8th? To make things simple, I’ll be wearing a red scarf. James To: James Collingwood From: Sarah Woodward Subject: Meeting That would be wonderful! To keep things consistent, I’ll be carrying a small red pocketbook. I can’t wait to actually meet you! Warm regards, Sarah I never heard back from him. But did I need to? He had set the meeting in place. I only needed to show up. I am now at the Viewing Deck. It feels like my heart is pounding at an unsafe rate as I quickly scan the few people looking out at the Delaware River. There is a small family with unruly children. To their right, a young couple look flirtatiously at each other. An elderly man sits in a wheelchair by himself. Could that be...? I tentatively make my way over to the old man and glance sideways at him. No red scarf. I glance at my Apple watch. 2:05. Okay, it’s not considered “late” until fifteen minutes, right? I take deep breaths, hoping to quell the rising panic inside. Is he not going to even show up? Is he going to actually stand me up? My anger rises to unwarranted levels. I turn and look in every direction. Not one red scarf. I turn back around and stare at the river. The flow rises and falls, the white sky illuminates the ripples that travel away from me. Suddenly, I feel like everything is flowing away from me. I’m 44 and never married. Something always went wrong with each relationship, and it was never the same thing. The water running past me now reminds me that I will never be a mother. Which makes me think of my mother. In my mind, I see her in all the black and white photos I’ve seen of her: The small baby, the mischievous toddler, the 3rd grade student in the class photo, her hands folded on her lap, the photos of her in her high school yearbook... laughing, vivacious, alive. The next photos I saw were of her and Paul at their first home. She was visibly pregnant. Her smile didn’t look joyful, as it once had, it was now a smile of gratitude. The photos were in color when I was born and Mom and Paul held me in both their arms, holding me up in my pink blanket with expressions of such expectation and pride. My eyes water again and - “Sarah?” A hand softly touches my shoulder. I spin around. A tall, older man stands in front of me. He wears a black beret and a gray cashmere coat. The coat matches his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He’s wearing sunglasses - or maybe they’re those prescription glasses that turn dark outside? He’s wearing a red scarf. I nod. “Yes, yes, I’m Sarah. And you must be James?” He nods. “Jamie. Everyone calls me Jamie.” “Oh! Okay. Jamie, then.” There’s a paralyzing silence, but it lasts less than a minute. Jamie rubs his gloved hands together. “ It’s chillier than it looks. Would you like to head to Cherry Street Pier and grab a cup of coffee?” “That sounds perfect.” We walk side by side in silence. I glance at Jamie, but he stares straight ahead. We get to Cherry Street Pier and wander past the art exhibits to the concessions. Jamie gestures for me to order. “Uh, I’ll have an Americano with light cream and that’s it.” Jamie grins beneath his sunglasses (are they sunglasses?) and turns back to the barista. “I’ll have the same.” We sit at a small round table for two and look at each other. I can’t quite tell if there’s a physical resemblance or not because of his damn (possibly) sunglasses. I smile nervously. “I’m not really sure where to begin or where to stop.” He nods. “Well, I’ll start. Yes, I dated Kimmie Hart for about 7 months in 1979. But I never, ever knew she’d gotten pregnant.” I stare at him, but in my mind all I can think is Kimmie? You called her Kimmie? My entire life, I’ve only heard her called Kimberly. “Right. And I was born in 1980. I wonder why she never told you.” He shrugs. “I guess - after a relationship ends, would you tell someone something like that?” I’d never asked myself that question. I didn’t have a ready answer. The barista calls Jamie’s name and he comes back with our coffees. I begin shaking a bit and I don’t know why, which makes me more nervous. Jamie takes a sip of his coffee. “May I ask what Kimmie died of? In my mind, she was always fit and healthy.” I nod. “Yes, she was. She died in a car accident. She was blindsided by a drunk driver twenty years ago.” Jamie is silent, then takes another sip of his coffee. “That’s a shame. Tragic.” I drink some of my coffee. “So, other than your name, I really don’t know much about you. I mean, what career path did you follow?” He raises his eyebrows and looks relieved I threw him a softball. “Architecture. It was always architecture. “Huh.” I shrug. “And my degree is in Environmental Design.” Jamie lifts his coffee cup. “Well done!” He puts his coffee cup back on the table and looks at me. “Did - did your mother ever tell you about me?” I shake my head. “No. No, she never did. I always thought Paul - my step-father - was my real father. It was shortly after Mom died that he told me. I don’t know why, so don’t ask.” “So -“ Jamie speaks slowly. “She never once mentioned Jamie Collingwood?” I look at him. I feel that he so much wants me to say yes. I can’t want to lie. “She may have, and I just don’t remember.” He nods. He knows. “That’s okay. No doubt she didn’t know what to do about the - situation.” Jamie gives a deep sigh and leans back in his chair. “I want you to know that I loved Kimmie. I really did. Well, as much as anyone that age knows what love is. And I always remembered her and wondered what path she’d walked on in life. It sounds silly, but I’d look up at the moon some nights and think, ‘Maybe Kimmie is looking at the same moon at this same second. Maybe she’s wondering if I am, too. I really did love her.” Suddenly, Jamie’s face drops, and his shoulders begin to shake. One of his hands is still on the table. I place my hand over his. He pulls off his glasses and looks up at me. His hazel-green eyes are a perfect match with mine. We both see it. We both know it. And we both tear up. Jamie pushes his chair away from the table and steps over to me. I stand up and he embraces me in his strong arms. As if I’m a baby bird he never had the chance to nurture.