When I initially saw the small pair of blue sneakers next to Paul’s headstone, I assumed it was a mistake. They must have been accidentally placed on the wrong grave.
I reasoned that a parent who had lost a child might have left them in a state of ambiguity. After all, people react strangely to mourning. This was something I knew all too well.
After Paul passed away, I began producing jars and jars of my own jam. Paul hadn’t particularly liked jam, and I didn’t need them. It was merely something to do, a way to occupy my time and distract myself from the unexpected void in my life.
He had died in a car accident on his way home to me, so I was on my own now. The stifling pain was not even lessened by the useless task of producing jam.
But the shoes at his grave were not the same. Before I left, I moved them away, returned my lilies to their proper place, and whispered to Paul my usual thing. I didn’t think much of it at the moment.
However, by the time I went back the next week, a new pair of shoes had surfaced, this time tiny red rain boots that had been thoughtfully positioned at the base of the gravestone. I started to get nervous at that point.
This could not possibly be a coincidence. Why were these shoes showing up when Paul and I had never had children? Who was leaving them? My mind kept returning to the questions.
I tried to ignore it at first. Maybe there was a mistake of some kind, or perhaps a sad person nearby dropped the shoes on the wrong grave. But with every visit, there were more shoes in different colours and sizes. Another pair was waiting for me each time I returned from a trip that lasted more than a week.
My uneasiness soon gave way to irritation. I felt like I was being ruthlessly ridiculed by the cosmos. The fact that those shoes were there, symbols of the life Paul and I never shared, made the visit all the more heartbreaking. In the hopes that the shoes would cease appearing, I avoided the cemetery for some time. But by the time I returned, there were six pairs in a neat row. Frustrated, I lost my temper.
This was being done by whom? Was I being made fun of for my sorrow?
One cold, clear morning, I determined I had to know. I arrived at the cemetery earlier than normal in the hopes of identifying the guilty party. I had brought flowers for Paul, but as I approached the cemetery, I saw her.
While kneeling close to Paul’s gravestone, a woman was carefully placing a small pair of brown sandals next to the other shoes. Her long dark hair swayed slightly in the breeze as she worked, and at first she didn’t notice me. However, she was shocked and turned to face me as I shouted out to her.
I went cold.
It was Paul’s former assistant, Maya. She had unexpectedly left her job just before Paul’s accident, so I hadn’t seen her since. She used to be really joyful, kind, and always smiling. Her face was wrinkled with agony now, though. She had a profound melancholy in her eyes that reflected mine.
“Maya?” With a hint of incredulity in my voice, I whispered. Why had she come here? She had left shoes on Paul’s grave, but why?
Her face fell apart when she saw I had captured her. Without a word, she pulled a little, well-worn photo from the pocket of her coat. She handed it to me with trembling hands.
When I looked down at the photo, my heart fell. In the picture, Paul was grinning and holding a baby boy. The child had Paul’s black hair and bright eyes. The resemblance was unmistakable.
“His name is Oliver,” Maya stated in a barely audible whisper. “Paul is his father.”
Everything seemed to be tipping in my direction. I gripped the photo with shaking hands. I thought my husband knew this secret quite well, but he had kept it from me. I was unaware of the existence of the child he had.
“You had an affair,” I whispered softly, my voice deadpan.
With tears streaming down her cheeks, Maya nodded. “I never meant for this to happen,” she said, her voice breaking with fury. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ellen. Even though I loved Paul, things weren’t supposed to be this way. When I discovered I was pregnant, I ran away because I didn’t want to ruin your life. Nevertheless, once Paul died, I didn’t know what to do.
I nodded. He deserves to get to know his father, even if it’s only via small gestures like this. Not to mention that I could help him. Learn about Paul as he is.
Once again, tears filled Maya’s eyes, but this time they were tears of gratitude. “Thank you, Ellen,” she said.
As Maya left, I stood alone at Paul’s grave, staring at the shoes that had appeared like a terrible joke. They were no longer a reminder of betrayal, but of a young boy who needed to feel close to his father after he had lost him. I discovered a new purpose at that moment, even though I knew my pain would never completely go away.
As I got to know Oliver, I also discovered that a new kind of family was created not by blood but by shared suffering and love. The shoes, which formerly stood for melancholy, now symbolise healing.
