Ten years from now, Times Square on Christmas Eve. Peter promised his high school love Sally he would be there on prom night. A decade later, he arrived hopeful. Instead of Sally, a young girl approached with a devastating truth that would ruin his life.
They heard their students’ muted laughing and a quiet violin drone. Peter gripped Sally’s hands tightly, his thumbs stroking her knuckles like he could remember her touch. Crying had left black lines on her hot cheeks and mascara.
Her voice broke as she continued, “I don’t want to go.”
Peter’s eyes sparkled as he controlled his emotions. “I know,” he said, drawing her in. “God, Sally, don’t go either. Some dreams are larger than us.”
“Are they?” Sally challenged with passionate green eyes. What about our dream? How about everything we planned? Her and his fingers combined.
“You must go,” Peter muttered. “Your family, your dreams… You always wanted to study in Europe. Can’t stop you. Your universe won’t diminish because of me.”
A tear fell from Sally’s face. But what about us? Her voice broke as those three words carried every shared moment, secret kiss, every promise they’d made.
He drew her closer, closing the gap. “We’ll meet again,” he murmured, his voice firm amid the turmoil.
“If we lose touch, promise to meet at Times Square on Christmas Eve ten years from now,” Sally murmured, trembling through tears. I’ll carry a yellow umbrella. Thus, you will locate me.”
Ten years from now, Times Square on Christmas Eve. Peter promised to hunt for the most beautiful lady with a yellow umbrella even if life separates us.
Sally laughed bitterly, heartbroken. Even if we’re married or have kids? You must attend. simply chat. Keep me informed of your happiness and success.”
Peter said, “Especially then,” wiping her tears with his fingertips. “Because some connections transcend time and circumstances.”
On the dance floor, they held hands while the world moved around them. two hearts throbbing in perfect, agonizing synchronicity, knowing some goodbyes are elaborate see-you-laters.
Time blew like leaves. Peter and Sally mostly wrote letters. She stopped writing one day. Although heartbroken, Peter kept traveling in hopes of seeing her.
After ten years, Times Square was filled with Christmas lights and festive happiness.
Peter stood with his hands in his coat pockets beside the huge Christmas tree. Snowflakes whirled and melted on his black hair. He looked for yellow among the crowd.
Though he hadn’t seen her in years, he could spot her anywhere. Memorable Sally. He recalled her laughing while teasing him and her nose scrunching when reading anything serious.
Each moment pulled at his heart with memories.
In a festive whirlwind, travelers and locals mixed. Peter’s watch ticked. First minutes, then hour. The yellow umbrella remained almost invisible. Suddenly, someone yelled from behind.
Voice was tiny and timid. Small enough to be blown away by the cold wind. He whirled swiftly, his pulse thumping so hard he could hear it.
A small girl behind him had a yellow umbrella. Her pale face was framed by chestnut locks, and her eyes instantly recognized him.
“Are you Peter?” she said softly, as if frightened of shattering a charm.
Peter stooped to her level, madly confused. As he looked at her, his usually calm hands shook. My name is Peter. Who are you?
The girl bit her lip, reminding him of someone he had knew and making him gasp. The yellow umbrella wobbled in her little hands as she moved her weight.
“My name’s Betty,” she muttered. “She won’t come.”
Peter felt a cold unrelated to winter. Something in her eyes and attentive posture suggested a narrative more involved than a fortuitous meeting.
“What do you mean? Who are you? He asked, sounding more like a plea.
“I’M YOUR DAUGHTER,” she murmured. Eyes filled with tears. They were green. shockingly green. The same color as a dance floor a decade ago.
Peter’s chest clenched, trapping his heart in emotion. Despite knowing the response would alter everything, he managed “Mmm-My Daughter?”
Before Betty could react, an older couple arrived. The tall man had silver hair, and the woman grasped his arm, her face pleasant but engraved with anguish that seemed to have carved permanent lines around her eyes and mouth.
“We found him,” Betty replied, scared and excited.
Nodding, the guy looked at Peter with keen intensity. “Hello, Peter,” he whispered slow and deep. Felix, this is my wife. Parents of Sally. Much has been spoken about you.”
Peter froze, head spinning like a hurricane. His legs shook and his heart raced. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. Where’s Sally? How does this girl define “my daughter?”
The elder woman’s frail lip trembled, speaking volumes. Peter’s world was shattered by her words like stones. “She died two years ago. Cancer.”
Peter stumbled back as if the words hit him. He repeated, “No… No, that can’t be true,” in a frantic prayer.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Felix replied quietly, his voice full of sympathy like a merciless embrace. “She didn’t want you to know.”
Betty yanked on Peter’s sleeve, saving him from emotional ruin. “Before she died, Mom told me you loved her like she was the most precious thing in the world,” she said innocently.
Peter kneeled again, his world whirling. The words in his trembling voice were fragments of a dream. Why didn’t she tell me? About you? About her illness? Why didn’t she let me help?
With hands linked, Mrs. Felix advanced. “She found out she was pregnant with your child after she moved to Paris,” she said. “She didn’t want to burden you. She knew your mother was unwell and you were busy. She assumed you’d forgotten and were happy.”
“Happy?” Peter laughed rough and broken. “But I never stopped loving her,” he continued, his voice shattering like glass and hurting. “Never.”
Mrs. Felix took a tattered journal from her luggage. She remarked, “We found this after she passed,” gently stroking the worn cover with love that spoke of many grieving and remembering moments.
“She wrote about her excitement to see you again today at this location. That’s how we knew. “She never stopped loving you, Peter.”
Peter handled the journal with cautious, respectful hands that shook like autumn leaves. Using her flawless handwriting, Sally wrote a lovely script that danced between optimism and sadness.
His fingertips traced the words, each paragraph revealing a never-ending love.
The pages had a prom night snapshot of young Sally and Peter, caught in one other’s gaze, the world around them a blur.
The photo, artfully placed between lines about Betty’s goals and Sally’s worst regrets, symbolized a love that survived unfathomable odds.
Tears obscured his eyesight, turning the words into an emotional painting. In these frail pages, Sally’s dreams, concerns, and astonishing love are conveyed. He peered up at Betty’s anxious, wide eyes. Eyes that carried Sally’s strength and energy.
“My daughter!” Peter’s whisper was a revelation, prayer, and promise.
He thought of her mother as Betty nodded, her little chin rising with bravery. “Mom said I look like you,” she added, vulnerable and proud.
Peter hugged her as firmly as he could, as if he could shield her from all suffering, loss, and uncertainty.
“You look like your mom too, sweetheart,” he whispered, smiling slightly. You’re as pretty as she was.”
Betty slept in his embrace, finding a home she hadn’t known she needed.
They spoke for hours. Betty recounted him stories her mom had told, each line a beautiful thread holding together a life he’d missed.
Peter was reminded of all he had lost and rediscovered in a second by her impassioned motions and glowing eyes when she spoke about Sally.
“Mom used to tell me how you’d dance in the rain,” Betty continued, sketching an invisible pattern. She stated you were the only one who could make her laugh during the worst moments.
Mrs. Felix approached, softly touching Peter’s shoulder. “Sally was protecting you,” she said, her voice laden with sacrifices. She didn’t want you confined. Dear, she did that for you.”
Peter wiped his face, his tears frozen like memories. “I would’ve dropped everything for her,” he muttered.
Mr. Felix had unshed tears. “We know that now,” he remarked. “And we regret not finding you sooner.”
Peter stared at Betty, her face a wonderful mix of amazement and melancholy, a reminder of the love he lost and found. He said, “I’m never letting you go,” a holy commitment. “Not until I die.”
Sally’s emerald eyes met his as she smiled shyly yet optimistically. “Promise?”
“I promise,” Peter responded.
In the months that followed, Peter worked hard to bring Betty to America. The administrative and emotional difficulties were difficult, but he persisted. She entered his flat, her laughing (like Sally’s) filling the calm rooms.
Betty would comment, “This was Mom’s favorite color,” pointing to a picture or throw cushion. „She always said it recalled something special.”
Peter smiled, realizing he was always ‘something special’.
He frequently went to Europe to see Mr. and Mrs. Felix and Sally’s grave. Every journey was bittersweet… delicately woven pleasure and anguish. Betty held his hand, a quiet comfort and a real connection to the lady they loved.
“Tell me about how you met,” Betty would ask, and Peter would recount teenage love, pledges made under school dance lights, and a lasting relationship.
At Sally’s grave, Peter and Betty commemorated their first Christmas together. A brilliant arrangement of yellow flowers adorned the stone, contrasting with the snow. Color, optimism, and remembered love.
Betty muttered, “She used to say yellow is the color of new beginnings,” generating snow puffs.
“Your mom was right. Peter wrapped his arm around his daughter, “She’d be so proud of you.”
Betty nodded and hugged him. “And she’d be glad we met.”
Peter kissed her temple, heartbroken and in love. He repeated, “I’ll never let you go,” a father-daughter commitment and the memory of a love that had waited ten years to be reunited.
