1964

It's called unrequited love. Most love stories are about people who fall in love with each other. Unfortunately, you’re not in a romance novel.

As a child, you would wait by the train tracks, hoping for a glimpse of him, Jean Moreau. The school bus would whisk him away, and you would daydream about attending school, a luxury you couldn’t afford due to your family’s hardships. You first saw Jean when you began working as a housemaid for his family at nine, while he was fourteen. He played the piano with grace, performing “Les Djinns.” When you stumbled and fell, he helped you up instead of scolding you, and invited you to sit beside him. From that moment, you couldn’t stop watching him, seizing every chance to see his face.

Jean eventually left for a private boarding school in London. Despite his absence, you continued waiting by the train tracks, even though the bus that once picked him up no longer stopped. Years passed—six in total—yet you remained a housemaid for his family. On Christmas Eve, while you and your mother prepared for Mrs. Moreau’s party, the doorbell rang. You hurried upstairs, stunned to see Jean at the door, accompanied by a young woman.

Mrs. Moreau greeted them with joy, her eyes sparkling as she embraced the woman. “Are you the girl my son has been endlessly writing about?” she asked warmly.

Jean proudly introduced her: “This is Anastasia—soon to be Anastasia Marie Moreau.” He showcased her ring with a tender flourish.

Mrs. Moreau gasped in delight, hugging them both and calling Mr. Moreau from his study. You stood there, a silent observer, watching the scene unfold. The way Jean looked at Anastasia was the same way you had always looked at him, a look you knew all too well.