I turned around and saw Dad standing near the hostess stand. He looked embarrassed, not angry. He sat beside me and finally explained that the scratched-out woman in the photograph was my mother’s younger sister, Evelyn. Years earlier, Evelyn had disappeared after a terrible family argument, and Mom spent the rest of her life regretting that they never reconciled. Before Mom died, she made Dad promise that if he ever started living again, he would also try to find Evelyn.

Those “dates” had never really been dates. Each woman had responded to messages Dad posted through genealogy groups and old neighborhood contacts because she knew something about Evelyn. Dad brought them to the restaurant because it was the last place all three had been photographed together. When the check arrived, he would show them copies of the picture and ask whatever questions he had prepared. Afterward, there was simply no reason for them to call again.
The envelope under the booth contained everything Dad had learned after each meeting—addresses, old names, photographs, and notes for me in case he never finished the search himself.

Then the waitress quietly placed one more paper on the table.

A recent address.

Evelyn was alive.

Dad looked at me and whispered, “I think I finally found your aunt.”