He knew me instantly. I watched it happen, watched the years fall off his eyes even as they filled. He gripped the doorframe and whispered my name like it was a word he had not been allowed to say out loud in decades. I held up the locket. His mouth trembled. And then, standing in that doorway, the whole lie finally came apart.

The night my mother told me he had run off with a girl from Marion, Clyde had been in St. Brendan’s with a fractured skull. My father, furious that his sixteen-year-old daughter was serious about a boy with no money, had confronted him on the river road. There had been a shove, a fall, a head against stone. Clyde spent nine days in that hospital. When he came looking for me afterward, my mother met him at the door and told him I never wanted to see him again, that I had called him a mistake. He believed her, the same way I had believed her. Two children, each told the other had walked away.

He had gone down to the river before he left town for good, because someone had seen me throw the locket in, and the water was low that July. He waded in and found it in the mud at the bend. He kept it forty-one years. He tucked his hospital wristband inside it as proof, in case he ever found the courage to show me, and he never did, because every year the belief that I had rejected him hardened a little more. This week, sick and nearly broke, he had pawned it. “She never wanted the truth anyway,” he had told Dale, because that was the lie he had been handed and had finally stopped fighting.

I stepped over the threshold and put my arms around him, and we both cried the way you cry for a life you were cheated out of. My mother was long gone. My father too. There was no one left to rage at, only the two of us and the years we had. So we chose the years. I moved him out of that rooming house within the month. He fixed my toaster the first week, laughing that I never did buy the one from the pawnshop. We are old now, and slow, and there is no undoing what was stolen. But every morning he sits at my kitchen table while the muffins toast, and the locket sits between us, dent and all, holding the truth it took a lifetime to deliver.