Skip to content 
I was 66 years old and thought love was a word for other women. Then, in a Facebook group for singles, I came across a 1978 photo of me and my first love. Beneath it, a single line from him took my breath away: “Mara, if you’re still alive, our son never died.” I was about to discover a truth that had been hidden for half a century.
The phone fell from my hand onto the kitchen floor, and the teacup spilled onto the white tablecloth. “Mom, what have you done?” my daughter, Raluca, shouted from the living room. I couldn’t answer her. On the lit screen, near the leg of the chair, was an old, yellowed photograph from 1978. A boy with black hair and a serious look was standing next to a girl in a pale pink dress, with curls on her shoulders and a shy smile. Behind them, a large card: “CONGRATULATIONS TO THE GRADUATES!” The girl was me. The boy was Adrian Munteanu, my first love. The man I had cried for as if he were dead, even though everyone had told me that he had simply left me.
Under the photo, Adrian had written a single sentence: “Mara, if you are still alive, our son never died.” That was it. One line. And my hands stopped feeling the world.