“Her name is Hanna,” Mom says stiffly. “She’s confused.”

“I couldn’t find any records at all for Hanna, or a family of origin with that surname in this district,” Zofia tells Mom gently. “It makes no sense. If this is her childhood home, and she and her siblings were born here, the Wis´niewski family would have left behind some records.”

Mom is shaking her head, but then I hear the electronic sound of a camera shutter in the background at the hospital room. Mom looks away from the screen, and then I hear Babcia’s iPad say Alina, and Mom’s eyes widen in disbelief. She silently turns the camera around, and I see Babcia sitting on the bed, the iPad resting awkwardly on her lap, facing toward Mom.

Babcia’s face is set in a mask of pure determination, and she’s made a label on the iPad screen for Alina, complete with a brand-new selfie of herself for the image. After a moment or two, Babcia gives us an impatient look, then she holds her left forefinger up, points to the screen, then stabs her finger against her own chest.

“Holy shit,” I say.

“That’s pretty definitive confirmation,” Zofia says.

“No. I don’t believe this,” Mom says. She turns the camera around again and she’s scowling at the screen. “Alice, I don’t understand this. It makes no sense at all. She’s lied to me for my whole life? No. I don’t—”

“Mom,” I interrupt her carefully. “Remember she wanted you to name me Alina? Maybe it does make at least a little sense.”

Mom’s expression stiffens. We stare at each other for a moment, then the camera picks up the sound of Babcia’s iPad speaking again.

Alina fire Tomasz. Babcia fire Tomasz. Alina fire Tomasz.

“Christ, she’s getting upset now,” Mom mutters. She’s visibly frustrated, and she glares into the camera screen. “I’m going to go calm her down. Alice, I’ll talk to you later. I need to think about this.”

The call disconnects abruptly, and I sigh and glance at Zofia.

“So, my grandmother adopted a false identity eighty-odd years ago. Is that what we’re assuming here?”

“I think that’s fair to deduce, yes.”

“Any ideas why?”

“There are an infinite number of possible explanations. Identity forgery was a thriving industry in occupied Poland.” Zofia shrugs. “Perhaps she ran afoul of the Nazis at some point and needed to go into hiding. There’s not really any way for us to know, unless she finds a way to tell us.”

I look around the farm again. There’s not really that much here, but I find I’m not at all ready to leave, so I make an excuse to stay. “I think I’ll take some more photos... I’d like to send some back to my husband and my kids.”

“Take as much time as you like, Alice.” Zofia smiles, and then she steps away from me and says, “I’ll give you some space, hey? I’ll wait for you at the car.”

* * *

When I’ve photographed every feature I can find around Babcia’s old house, Zofia and I drive back into the town. The next address is only about a mile away from the farmhouse, nestled deep within a narrow laneway. As Zofia turns the car into the little street, I survey the towering trees along the sidewalk.

“Sweet chestnut trees,” Zofia explains. “They are all through that huge park at the end of the street too. What a beautiful spot. I’m guessing this must have been quite a prestigious address in your grandmother’s time.”

There are some very old, very large houses here and when we first enter the street, I fully expect that we’re headed toward one of them. I’m disappointed, though—because the number my grandmother has guided us toward happens to be one of the recently modernized homes in the street.

“I guess we got lucky with the farmhouse, but whatever she was expecting to find here seems to be long gone,” Zofia says.

“There doesn’t seem much I can do except take some photos to show her what it looks like now,” I say with a sigh. We knock on the door anyway and discover that the owners now are a young professional couple, and the house has sold at least twice in the last twenty years, so the woman who answers the door has no idea why my grandmother might have wanted a photo of it. Still, she’s warm and friendly—and once we explain why we’re there, she’s kind enough to offer to show us through the house in case it’s of importance. As we enter the ultramodern lobby, it’s clear that whatever Babcia wanted us to find here is long gone.

We leave empty-handed—and I knew this might happen, but it’s disappointing after the high of seeing the farmhouse and discovering Babcia’s real name. It’s now well past lunchtime, and my stomach is starting to growl. Zofia suggests we take a break, so we head back to the town square for a break.

“Let’s see what this afternoon brings.” She winks, as we sit down to lunch.

* * *

After we eat, I leave Zofia to the second coffee she “desperately needs,” and I walk to a nearby laneway to find some privacy to call back to my family.

“Where are you, Mommy?” Callie asks, as soon as I call. The connection is not great here, so the video feed of her face isn’t quite as clear as it was yesterday in the city, but even so—the sight of her is enough to make me feel a pang of homesickness for the first time. I push that away and keep my tone light.

“We’re at a small town called Trzebinia, which is where Babcia and Pa were born,” I tell her. “How’s things back there?”

“Oh, you know,” she says. “Don’t worry, I’m helping Dad more now—he’s almost got the basics down pat. Almost.” I try to laugh, but it comes out with a wince, and Callie’s expression grows a little sadder. “Mommy. When Daddy goes away for work, we miss him a lot, but this is so different. I just really miss you.”

“I miss you too, honey bear,” I say sadly. Callie’s big eyes fill with tears, and she blinks rapidly.

“Anyway,” she says, and for just a second she sounds so much older than her ten years that my heart aches a little more. She exhales, then asks me brightly, “Have you found anything else cool today?”

I fill her in about the farmhouse, and then promise to send her some photos. When Wade takes the phone, the homesickness returns. I spend a lot of time at home worrying about the things that seem broken in my marriage. It’s only now, when I’m on the other side of the world, that it’s crystal clear to me that some things are still whole. The connection between us feels less vibrant than it once was, but Wade is still my best friend, and I’m still deeply, hopelessly drawn to him.

“Hey,” I say softly.