I grabbed my coat and went.
The station was bustling, full of laughter and voices. And then I saw him sitting on a bench, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. His hair was white, his face lined with age, but it was him. My husband. My Michael.
Tears blurred my vision as I rushed toward him. But just as I was about to embrace him, he lifted a hand to stop me.
“Darling,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion and tears beaming in his eyes, “You have no idea what happened to me. The story of why I disappeared may sound impossible, but you need to believe me.”
Forty years ago, my husband Michael left to buy milk and never returned. I was left with two young children and no answers. Over time, I gave up hope—until a mysterious letter arrived, urging me to go to the railway station.
At the station, I found Michael—older but unmistakably him. He explained he had been abducted because of a secret gambling debt and forced into servitude. For decades, he couldn’t contact us, fearing for our safety. Finally, federal agents dismantled the criminal group, freeing him.
A federal agent confirmed Michael’s critical role in taking down the cartel. Though overwhelmed, I asked why he hadn’t told me. He replied, “I did it for you, for the kids.”
As we walked home that evening, after forty years of pain, I knew we were finally reunited. Whatever came next, we would face it together.
