Maisie’s mouth went dry.
She hadn’t thought of it like that. Not in words. But of course—if Faivish came back, if she found him, if love could stretch across everything and reach again—they would be a family. What would Faivish say to her changed circumstances?
“I suppose we would,” she said softly. “Yes.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, watching him. She didn’t know what he’d say. Whether it would be too much. Whether the idea of afather would push him away.
A moment passed.
Then John spoke, very softly. “I’ve never had a father who was here.” His fingers stopped drawing. “I’d like to have one.”
Maisie didn’t trust herself to answer. She just reached across the table and let her fingers rest lightly on the edge of his paper, close enough to be felt, but not so close as to press.
One day, she thought. If love can find its way back. If Faivish is out there… I’ll bring him home.
Behind her, Deena came in with the wind still clinging to her shawl. She carried a few scraps of paper and a dusting of flour down one sleeve. “I took the letters to the post.”
Maisie turned, her thread still looped through the needle. “Which letters?”
Deena was already at the hearth, dusting her hands. “The ones on your escritoire. You sealed them, so I assumed they were ready.”
Maisie’s heart thudded once. “Even the one with no address?”
Deena gave a small shrug. “It said something about a missing person. Just capital letters, I think?” She paused.
“Initials.” Maisie spoke without taking a new breath. “I hadn’t meant to send that one.”
“I thought you did,” Deena said, more gently now. “It was sealed.”
“I sealed it so I wouldn’t keep reading it,” Maisie said, setting the shirt aside. Her voice was too even. “It was for Faivish.”
Deena stilled. “You didn’t write his name. You don’t know where he is.”
“No. I wouldn’t.” Maisie walked to the edge of the table and placed her palms flat. The air between them shifted. “That’s why I never ask anyone. Never write to anyone official. I don’t even use his name when I speak.”
Deena said nothing, but her face sobered.
“You know what they are doing,” Maisie continued quietly. “Clerks copying synagogue records. Sifting through shipping manifests. Keeping books on where Jews live, what they own.”
“List is in London now, Rachel said,” Deena added. “Buying off printers. Paying boys to sit in Jewish shops and report who comes and goes.”
Maisie nodded. “If I put Faivish’s name on a letter and it lands in the wrong hands…” She trailed off. “He could be in danger.”
“But you don’t know where he is.” Deena said and Maisie knew what that meant. I don’t even know if he’s alive and has returned from India.
Maisie looked down at the table, her fingers brushing a thread someone had missed.
The silence thickened. The fire cracked low. Outside, the same rough voice called again, some street name twisted into an order, half-sung, half-cursed.
Maisie turned back to John with a pained smile.I’d like to be a real family with Faivish here, too.
“You didn’t mean to send it,” Deena said, as if mourning the deed.
“No,” Maisie murmured. “But it’s gone now.”
Love meant not shouting his name to the world, even if it ached to keep it hidden. Love meant staying quiet, staying careful.
Because even far apart, she would not be the one who endangered him. Not her Faivish.
