Too Late To Say Goodbye

I’ve lived a long life—one filled with goodbyes, unexpected turns, and silent wounds. But nothing shaped me more than the summer I met Zara.

I was born in 1945. My mother raised me by herself. She had a lover once, but when he learned she was pregnant, he vanished, or at least mom told me that. She never saw him again. I never had a chance to meet him. And, over time, that became okay.

It was 1959. I was thirteen when Mom and I left our quiet town behind and moved to New York City. To say I felt lost would be an understatement. I ate alone, rode the bus alone, and missed home more than anything. Leaving our small town was painful. It may not sound important now, but losing my friends, my routine, and my quiet world back then felt like the end.

Mom was everything I needed. She was my best friend—supportive, kind, humble, and impossibly strong. She never gave up on life, or on me.

The science teacher announced our first project. I was paired with a girl who had never spoken to me before. She had bright green eyes—just like mine—blonde, curly hair, and a polished way of dressing. She didn’t say a word. I waited, but nothing. She didn’t seem friendly.

“Are you good at drawing?” I asked.

“No,” she said without even looking at me.

“Well… maybe I can draw all the landscapes and you can write the facts?”

“Alright.”

She didn’t help at all. After class, I went to the teacher.

“Zara’s had a hard year,” she told me gently. “She lost her father. I know she may seem distant, but... be patient.”

That day, I learned something simple but important: People don’t just act a certain way. There’s always a reason, even if we don’t know it yet.

The next day, I gave Zara a Hershey’s chocolate.

“This is for you,” I said.

She smiled, a little surprised. “Why?”

“Chocolate is good for happiness!.” I answered that was something I always said.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

It was a Friday evening, and we were about to start the last week of school, not only that but we were about to start high school.

We had lost track of time working on our science project. By the time we noticed the clock, it was late. Outside it started to rain. The kind of rain that made you think twice before stepping outside.

"Do you want to stay here tonight?" I asked. "Like a sleepover?"

She looked at me, unsure. "I’d like to," she said, "but I should let my mom know I’m here."

"You have a phone at home, right?"

"We do, but it’s long-distance. We don’t use it much, it's expensive."

"It’ll be quick," I told her. "Just a short call, please."

We went to the kitchen, where my mom was having tea after. Zara stood beside me while I explained everything.

My mom looked at us and smiled gently. "Of course, she can stay," she said. "We’ll call your mom."

Zara looked relieved. "Thanks," she said softly.

"Do you know the phone number?" my mom asked. Zara nodded and gave it to her.

She grabbed a pen, ready to write.

“What’s her name?”

“Miss Dorothy Anne Wilson,” Zara replied.

There was a pause.

“Was she born in England?” my mother asked.

I frowned. The question felt… strange. Why would she ask that?

Zara hesitated. “Um… yes. She is from England.”

My mom stayed quiet for a few seconds. Her face changed. The smile disappeared. Her eyes avoided ours.

Then she picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hello?” she said coldly.

And then—something I’d never seen before. Her voice was sharp, her body tense.

“I want you to come pick up your daughter immediately. She can’t be friends with my daughter anymore.”

“Mom!” I cried out.

“Be quiet, Ruth!”

“What’s wrong with you?” I shouted.

My mom’s eyes were burning. “This girl is the reason your father left you!” she shouted, still holding the phone.

Zara looked frozen. Her eyes filled with tears. “What…?”

My mother’s voice started breaking, and her words were cutting:

“I was dating Robert. He’d been distant… but the day before I told him I was pregnant, he confessed he was in love. In love with an English woman who had just moved to New York—Dorothy Anne Wilson, he said.

And then… he left me.

I never saw him again.”

“You never told me this before! You said he left you even after you told him you were pregnant! You hid his name from me!”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” she said. “Telling you or not wouldn’t change the fact that he got someone else pregnant too.”

I turned to look at Zara. She was sitting on the couch, crying uncontrollably. I tried to comfort her, but she pulled away. She didn’t want me near her. She stood up and ran out of the house.

I don’t know what happened to her that evening.

All I know is I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think of anything else.

She wasn’t just my friend.

She was my sister.

The next morning, Mom stayed in bed. She called in sick. I’d never seen her like that.

I made breakfast, but she refused to eat.

After thirteen years, her wound had opened again.

She wasn’t herself.

“Ruth,” she said quietly. “I need you to promise me something.”

I nodded.

“You will never speak to that girl again. Do you understand?”

“Mom!” I cried.

“I’m telling you. Not asking. Never again.”

“It’s not her fault! She’s just a child—like me! Why are you so angry at her?”

She looked away. Mom had always been steady, supportive, and soft. This wasn’t her.

“I raised you alone,” she said. “Because your father chose someone else. And now he’s dead. He got what he deserved.”

I froze.

All this time, she had kept that anger buried inside.

“I… I think you deserved it too,” I said, trembling. “You didn’t tell him you were pregnant. That changed everything. Thanks to you, I never even had a chance to meet him.”

She hit me.

Hard.

She had never hit me before.

But this time, she did.

I don’t know if I deserved it.

But I know I was right.

After that, she didn’t speak.

She didn’t raise her voice.

She just sat there.

Still.

I was furious with Mom. Furious that she never told my father about me. Furious that she had lied to me my entire life.

Something inside our relationship broke that day. It fell apart.

The next Monday—the last week of eighth grade—the first thing I did was look for Zara.

As soon as she walked into school, I ran to her.

We stood in front of each other for a moment, not knowing what to say.

I thought she’d be mad at me.

She thought I’d be mad at her.

But she hugged me first.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you more… sister,” I said.

We waited eagerly for recess. When it finally came, we sat together under a tree in the school courtyard, quiet at first.

I spoke first.

“What did your mom say?”

“She’s sad. Very sad,” Zara said. “I mean… my dad—our dad—had a relationship before her. Then he found someone else. It’s complicated. But… he was loyal to my mom his whole life.”

“Is she mad at him?” I asked.

“No. But… I think if your mom had told him she was pregnant, he would’ve taken care of you. “Maybe he just didn’t love your mom, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have loved you."

“I guess so,” I said softly.

“Well, you’re six months older than me,” Zara replied.

Then I looked at her. “What was he like? I mean… our father?”

Zara’s eyes filled with tears.

“He was everything I could’ve asked for. He used to call me ‘Princess Zara,’ and he played with me all the time. He never lied—not once. If something bothered him, he’d say it.

He was kind. Generous. Warm. He was... my dad.”

“I would have love to meet him, but you know, I am glad we had the chance to meet,” I said,

“Ruth, I think this coincidence has been one of the best things that has ever happened to me, I love you so much.” Zara told me as she started to cry, we both cried.

After that, I had to see Zara in secret. Her mom—Danna—allowed us to meet, so I spent many afternoons at their house.

We were about to start high school, but we ended up in different schools.

It didn’t matter.

We still saw each other several times a week.

For the next three years, things were good, we changed with the seasons but we never drifted apart.

Then came winter again. The air was sharp and cold. I left home saying I was going to a friend’s house—and technically, I wasn’t lying.

I walked to the end of the street, where Danna waited in her car. I had forgotten my mittens and scarf, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t planning to be outside much anyway.

What I didn’t know was that Mom had seen me. She took my scarf and mittens and went outside quickly, ready to remind me how forgetful I could be, but she must have realized something wasn’t right. She saw me getting in a white car when none of my friends had cars, so she followed us.

I didn’t notice her. I was too busy laughing, singing, and enjoying the ride.

Dorothy, Zara’s mother, parked in front of a cozy little café. It was crowded and warm inside, with the soft hum of conversation and live music playing in the background.

We found a table. The waiter came to take our order—

And then I heard it.

“Ruth!”

A voice sharp, furious, echoing through the café.

I turned. My heart stopped.

“Mom?” I whispered.

She was standing by the door, eyes burning.

“How dare you!” she shouted. “Have you been seeing these two this whole time? You are a traitor!”

“Mom!” I stood up. “They’re my family. Zara is my sister. And Danna… she’s like a stepmother to me.”

“She will never be your stepmother!”

Her voice shook the entire room.

“We’re moving away. Far from here. I mean it!”

Everything went silent. Even the music stopped.

All eyes were on me.

That moment—the humiliation, the betrayal, the pain—

It was the worst moment of my entire life.

“I hate you!” I screamed.

I was sixteen—old enough to understand and forgive, but still too young to live away from Mom.

No matter how much I loved Zara, it didn’t feel right to leave her behind.

And since I was still underage, I had no choice but to obey.

Before I left, I promised Zara I’d come back someday to find her.

We hugged tightly like we were trying to freeze that moment forever.

She didn’t cry, but her voice shook when she whispered, “Don’t forget me, okay?”

I nodded, biting my lip so I wouldn’t cry too.

“I won’t. I swear.”

We waved at each other until the bus turned the corner.

I remember looking back one last time—

and she was still there, standing in the rain,

small, still,

like part of me had stayed behind.

I didn’t know it then…

but that was the last time I’d ever see her.

We used to call once a week. Calling every day was too expensive, and my part-time job wasn’t enough to cover it.

We also wrote letters from time to time, trying to stay close despite the distance.

One day, Zara told me her mom had fallen and needed surgery to recover. It would be expensive, so they stopped paying for the phone line.

We stuck to letters for a while—until they stopped.

“The last I heard, her mom was recovering well, and Zara had started volunteering at a children’s center to try and earn a scholarship.”

After that, nothing. No more letters.

I no longer had a phone number to reach her.

But I was eighteen. I had a plan.

I worked hard and saved all my money for a year.

That summer, I flew back to New York.

I took the subway, remembering the days when I was thirteen and lost in the big city.

I went straight to her house and knocked on the door.

No one answered.

That was okay—I had the whole day.

I sat on the steps and waited.

Eventually, someone arrived. It was a middle-aged man who was dressed in a fancy suit.

“Hello, my name is Ruth and I’m looking for Dorothy and Zara,” I said kindly.

“I think you’ve got the wrong house,” he replied. “I’ve been living here for over a year now.”

“Do you know where the previous owners moved?” I asked, expecting him to know.

“I’m not a map,” he said with a shrug. “No idea.”

I felt the ground shift beneath me.

It was a big city. How was I supposed to find her?

Next, I went to the salon where her mother used to work.

“Hi, do you know where I can find Dorothy Anne Wilson?”

The woman at the front desk shook her head.

“She used to work here, she had an accident and then she quit. Haven’t seen her since.”

As my last option I went to the child center where Zara used to volunteer.

They told me she had moved to California.

My heart sank.

She was gone.

No note. No goodbye.

She had stopped writing to me.

And I had come all this way, holding on to the hope that we were still the same girls under that tree.

The loneliness came crashing in.

The sadness I thought would go away came back for a moment—but only a moment.

Because time had healed me.

And I felt no anger.

No resentment.

Just love.

I moved back to New York City when I first got married. I grew up to be a good mother, a loving wife, and the best daughter I could be. My mother got very sick—she was old, and she knew she wouldn’t make it. One night, she made a confession—something that had been weighing on her for years, something she had waited so long to say.

“I hid the letters Zara wrote to you,” she said. “They’re in my little wooden box at home. Please read them. I’m sorry, Ruth. I’m sorry. I’m human—I had feelings, and I wanted revenge against your father.

With time, I realized I’d done something wrong… but I didn’t know how to tell you.”

My heart broke all over again.

I was fifty by then. I had children of my own. And yet, I felt just as betrayed as I did when I was sixteen in that café.

But this time, I didn’t scream.

I forgave her.

I read all the letters my mother had hidden from me.

Zara wrote with sadness, confusion—she kept asking why I wasn’t answering.

She couldn’t understand my silence.

In one of her last letters, she mentioned that her mother had received a good job offer in California, and that she would be moving there.

She had been accepted into a great university—she wanted to become a nurse.

After that day, I began searching.

I spent years trying to find my best friend—someone with her name, living somewhere in California.

It wasn’t easy.

Technology back then wasn’t what it is now, in 2025.

Finally, when I was seventy, a coincidence—or maybe even a miracle—happened. I fainted suddenly while visiting my son in New Jersey. It wasn’t anything serious.

I woke up in the hospital, where my son was sitting beside me, holding my hand.

A nurse walked into the room. She had bright green eyes.

Her name tag caught my attention.

Anne Zara Marrin.

“I like your name, Zara. It’s beautiful,” I said.

“Thank you!” she replied with a smile. “It was my mother’s name. She gave it to me as my middle name.”

“It was my best friend’s name,” I whispered.

“I guess Zaras are good people, then. My mother was an incredible nurse. We lived in New York City back then. She inspired me to become the woman I am.”

That struck me.

Was this a coincidence?

Or was it fate?

I didn’t hesitate to ask.

“Sorry, what was her full name?”

“Zara Elizabeth Carter.”

My eyes filled with tears. I hadn’t found her in time—she was gone. My sister, my best friend, the one I hoped to meet again, was gone forever. And there I stood, face to face with her daughter… a grown woman with the same green eyes as me, as Zara, and as our father. But somehow, in that moment, it felt like she was standing there too. In her daughter's smile, she had come back to say goodbye.