13- Love is Over

 

On Saturday morning, Derya woke up to Serap’s call. "Sweetie, I haven’t been able to sleep for two days. Tunç is coming next week to pick up his stuff. He asked me to tell you," she said. Derya’s heart started beating fast. With the phone pressed between her right shoulder and ear, she put on her bathrobe and ran downstairs. She pressed the button on the coffee machine, opened the garden door, and inhaled the cool morning air.

Serap kept talking: "The other day, you called him, and he got really mad. ‘I was finally at peace for the last two or three weeks, but now she’s started texting again. I delete the messages without reading them. It makes me so angry,’ he said." Serap paused for a moment, waiting for her friend’s reaction. When she heard nothing from the other side, she continued: "Girl, why did you send him a message? Didn’t I tell you not to?" Derya sat on the garden swing with her coffee in hand. "Why shouldn’t I? I felt like it, so I did," she mumbled. Serap said, "Then don’t involve me. I don’t want to be in the middle of this, Derya."

Derya resented her ten-year friend Serap for wanting to stay neutral, but she didn’t say anything. After a short silence, Serap said: "I asked him how he’s going to get his stuff. He said he’d call Franck." Derya replied, "Oh come on! That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t even know Franck. Am I supposed to leave his stuff with Franck?" Serap said, "I think he’s bringing Franck with him because he’s afraid you might pull a knife or something when he comes. So I guess Franck will come with him to the door…"

Derya felt like she was in a surreal world. She put her coffee cup down on the swing and walked to the other side of the garden. While picking the dried flowers, she tried to make sense of what her friend had said. She felt stuck in a space between laughing and crying.

What hurt her wasn’t only Tunç’s absurd thoughts about her, but also the fact that Serap conveyed these words to her without questioning them. She hadn’t even said, "Are you crazy, my friend? What knife?" Tunç had been ignoring her for two months now, obviously because he didn’t have the courage to face her.

Then she told Serap, "No way, Franck wouldn’t get involved in this," and thanked her for the information before hanging up.

She stayed in the garden for a while longer and started doing the one thing that always calmed her down. She pulled out large weeds that looked like salad leaves from between the grass and sprinkled grass seeds into the gaps. The little apple tree now had apples the size of plums. She picked one of the unripe apples. While biting into the sour fruit, she called Franck and warned him: "Don’t get involved." Franck replied, "Sweetheart, why would I? Of course I won’t." "My dear Franck, a true friend," Derya thought emotionally. She wiped her teary eyes on the hem of her linen dress and continued pulling weeds.

She felt better, as if she had pulled out her inner anxiety along with the weeds. She put on her sneakers and sunglasses and went for a walk toward the vineyards. She had decided she wouldn’t behave the way Tunç expected her to. Even if situations tested her nerves, she silently promised herself she would maintain her dignity and calm.

All this had exploded during the summer holiday in Kuşadası, while chatting with Tunç’s sister. They had been drinking wine on the balcony when the topic of children came up, and Derya had said, "Well, Tunç can’t have children anyway." His sister hadn’t said anything at the time, but later she told Tunç about it. The next day, he ended the relationship over the phone.

Derya had called him countless times to apologize. "We were drinking, confiding in each other, and your sister brought it up," she had tried to explain. She had suggested they talk face to face, but Tunç never responded. He ignored two beautiful years and cut the relationship off like a knife.

Of course, Derya would have liked to have a child with him too, but while she was still trying to come to terms with it, she couldn’t understand why Tunç had made this topic such a taboo. His sister was already a little crazy; she believed that the sins of the ancestors passed down as diseases to the next generations. Who knew what she had made of the infertility issue?

That evening, she consoled herself with Korean dramas and two glasses of Chardonnay. She had always parted ways with her previous boyfriends in a civilized manner. This was the first time someone had just vanished. Sometimes she cried, sometimes she wrote her feelings in her diary.

On Sunday, she rearranged the house. She thought that erasing Tunç’s traces would be good for her mental health. She remembered what her therapist had said: "Box up his stuff and put it in the garage. If he comes to get his things, if possible, don’t let him into the house. If you want to talk, never talk inside the house. Talk in a neutral place, like a restaurant. If he comes without warning, tell him you’re not available and ask him to come back in a few hours. That way you gain time to prepare yourself."

While trying to do what her therapist had advised, she was also struggling to extinguish the fire inside her. She texted her girls’ group: "If you have anything to throw away and don’t know where to dump it, you can donate it to my ex-boyfriend." They all laughed at this. To cheer Derya up, they started listing the things they would donate.

On Monday evening, when she came back from work, Derya packed all of Tunç’s belongings. She carefully placed his suits and shirts into a large suitcase, his sweaters and t-shirts into a smaller one. She put his coats into a big sports bag, placing thin papers between them. His shoes and a few of his work files went into a fourth bag. There was also a printer, which she put into a cardboard box. She neatly arranged everything in the garage, next to her car.

She guessed that if Tunç was in Istanbul, he would fly to Paris, pick up his sister’s old wreck of a car, and drive here. Taking into account that his sister would probably keep him busy for a few days with errands once he arrived in Paris, she figured he wouldn’t get to Annecy before next Friday.

By Wednesday, there was still no news. Derya was so stressed from waiting that she bought a three-day ticket to Bodrum for Thursday evening. Before leaving, she warned Serap: "If Tunç calls, don’t you dare tell him I went to Turkey!"

While packing her suitcase, she also genuinely felt sorry for Tunç. "A whole life doesn’t fit into three or four suitcases, my love," she had cried. She truly pitied this poor man drifting from place to place like a Bedouin. Soon he would be forty years old, a grown man, yet still living in a small studio apartment, never defying his single sister’s word. He had studied in Turkey, then lived like a nomad in various European countries. For the past four years, he had stayed in Paris because he wanted to be close to his sister. "I wish he had found peace here with me, so he could end this endless migration," she thought, as her tears dropped onto the shirts she had carefully folded into the suitcase.

Actually, Tunç had often said, "I really want this. I want to finally put down roots somewhere." But he just couldn’t do it. As long as he stayed this harsh and merciless toward himself and others, he would never find peace with any woman, in any place. He would always be like feathers drifting in the wind—one day here, another day somewhere else. It wasn’t something he could control. Something deep in his subconscious was pushing him to live like this.

Even though she had decided not to say anything to Tunç, in the following days she didn’t act as planned. She sent him a message herself, telling him that she was in Bodrum but had packed his things and left them in the garage. Tunç knew the garage code. He could go in and take them.

During the three days she spent in Bodrum, she knew he didn’t want to see her, but still, she kept imagining going to Istanbul to see him. On the last day, before noon, she made one last attempt and called his mobile. For the first time in months, Tunç answered. He said he had landed in Geneva, rented a car, and was on his way to Annecy to pick up his things.

Derya’s flight was in the evening, but that morning she was lying on a sunbed at the hotel beach in Bodrum, staring at the sea. She pictured Tunç renting a car at Geneva Airport. She wished she had arrived with the morning flight and bumped into him by chance at the airport.

She checked her watch. It was only noon. She ordered a glass of champagne. Then, as if she were in a rush, she quickly drank it and went to her room to pack her suitcase. She wanted to be in Geneva right now. Even though her flight wasn’t until 7 p.m., even though she knew she wouldn’t make it in time to catch him, she went early to the airport, skipping the shopping she had planned to do.

While waiting at the airport, still five hours before her flight, she received a message from Tunç’s French number. "Derya, thank you. You packed the bags perfectly. I couldn’t have done it this well myself." So, he had already gone to Annecy, picked up his things, and left.

She didn’t reply, but if she had, she would have told him she had kissed and smelled all his belongings while packing them, and that there was nothing else she could do. Now that the bags were gone, the last bond between them was also broken. Wiping her tears, she sat at the airport bar and ordered another glass of champagne. While sipping it, she scrolled through their old messages and deleted them one by one. She knew she would regret this later that night in bed, but she still did it. Then she wrote in her diary: "What difference does it make to a blind man if it’s glass or diamond? If the one looking at you is blind, don’t think you’re made of glass! / Mevlana." Then she crossed out the word "diamond" and wrote "Derya" instead. Because even though love was over, life went on.

 

 

18- The Power Outage

 

It was Monday morning in Montreal, 11:30 am. I was working from home and attending a Teams meeting when suddenly my connection was lost. Thinking there was a problem with the modem, I unplugged it and plugged it back in. I was annoyed. When I decided to make myself a coffee, I realised the coffee machine wasn’t working either—that’s when I understood the power was out.

I opened the front door and looked outside. The corridor lights were on, and the elevator was working. I thought, “Maybe a fuse blew.” I went back inside, opened the fuse box behind the door in the storage room where we keep the washing machine and the air conditioner. Everything was fine—the switches were all up.

I rushed outside. In the elevator, I ran into a neighbour I didn’t know from our two-hundred-apartment residence and asked if they had electricity. Theirs was also out. I learned the whole neighbourhood was affected. He told me that the corridor lights and the elevator were connected to a generator.

So, they were used to outages. I didn’t panic, but I was annoyed because my meeting was cut off. I considered reconnecting via my mobile, but I remembered I hadn’t installed Teams on my Canadian SIM card, so I gave up. Anyway, it was already 11:30. In Zurich, it was 5:30 pm. I had already said everything I needed to say in the meeting. I decided my absence wouldn’t be a problem and went out for a walk.

I had invited my son and my nephew to Montreal to watch the Formula 1 races. Last week, we watched the races together and visited tourist sites in the city. Now they were exploring on their own. I had told them I’d meet them for lunch after finishing work. Since I finished earlier than expected, I sent them a message, and they sent me their location from Saint-Catherine Street.

When I reached René-Lévesque Avenue, I saw that the traffic lights were off and a few traffic police officers were directing traffic. I was curious how far the power outage had spread. It was now noon. I thought to myself, “What kind of underdeveloped country is this Canada, cutting off the power to an entire neighbourhood without warning, and it’s already been half an hour.” That would never happen in Zurich.

When I met up with them, I realised the outage had spread that far. We entered a hamburger restaurant. My nephew had decided to taste and rate poutine at every restaurant in Quebec, so he chose poutine again. Thankfully, the gas stoves were still working, so we were able to have lunch.

The lights didn’t come back in the afternoon either. My husband came home early from work and told us the factory they were building outside the city had also lost power. Through our phones, we found out the outage wasn’t just in Canada—some U.S. states were affected too.

When night fell, from our apartment with its amazing Montreal view, we saw the city was pitch black. Only CHUM Hospital and a few other buildings had lights, probably running on generators.

My son and nephew, whose vacation was ending in three days, started to worry about their flights. My nephew wanted to call his father in Stockholm, but it was already 8 pm here and 2 am there. I suggested waiting until the next day to avoid worrying them in the middle of the night.

To calm the kids down, we lit candles. We, the adults, had wine; the youngsters drank their favourite peach juice, and we chatted. Less than five minutes passed when we heard an announcement from a police car passing by our street. We listened carefully.

The announcement said that there had been no electricity in our city for eight and a half hours, that the entire American continent was in the dark, and for the past hour there had also been power cuts in parts of Europe and Africa. The outage was progressing step by step from west to east. They said the cause was under investigation, there was no need to panic, hospitals were running on generators, and solar-powered lights were working.

Instead of calming us, these words made us even more anxious. We wondered, “What do they mean by ‘parts of Europe, from west to east’?” We grabbed our phones. The kids said their batteries were about to die, so we decided to turn off all the phones to save power and leave only one on to get updates. We kept my husband’s phone on.

First, we checked our own countries in Europe. My husband’s country, Belgium, was completely in the dark. In Sweden and Switzerland, the power was slowly starting to go out. It was around 3 am there, so they would only notice when they woke up. The outage was moving like a line from west to east; half of Europe was dark, the other half still lit. It was 4 am in Turkey, and there had been no power cut there. In Asia, there were no outages. At least not yet.

To avoid getting too scared, we were awakened by the sound of my phone, which I had left on just in case. It was my brother calling from Stockholm. It was 7:30 in the morning there. He was worried about us—and of course about his son. I told him the kids were sleeping, that the power had been out for about 14 hours. I explained that we were taking turns using the phones, so if he couldn’t reach his son, he shouldn’t panic. I assured him that we were all together and that I wouldn’t take my eyes off anyone, then hung up. After that, we went back to sleep.

At 6:30 am, the alarm clock woke us up. The power was still out. I started worrying about the food in the fridge going bad. I thought we should eat the things that would spoil first. I told my husband, “Are you really determined to go to work? There’s no point if the power is out. We shouldn’t waste the car’s fuel.” But he didn’t listen. With a sense of duty, he set off, but less than an hour later he got a message from work telling everyone to stay home, so he came back.

First, I let my nephew call his parents. In recent years, they had covered their villa roof entirely with solar panels and bought a Tesla car. They told us they were generating their own electricity and that as long as the weather stayed good, they weren’t having any issues. Then we all sat down for breakfast. We had breakfast without tea or coffee, just with water and juice. I told my husband, “We need to find a store that’s open and buy a solar charger.”

After clearing the breakfast table, we took the kids and went out. The police were stationed in front of the shops to prevent looting and keep the city safe. So far, there hadn’t been any major problems. Since power outages happen during snowstorms here, I expected there to be more generators around. Since ATMs and cards weren’t working, we went to the bank. They had set up an old-fashioned service to withdraw money. Just in case, we took out the maximum amount allowed.

Apart from the crowds in the shops, there was nothing normal about the situation. Everyone seemed to have had the same idea, and in the electronics store we went into, everything solar-powered—lamps, chargers—was sold out. One of the employees told us even the solar-powered bathroom scales were gone. Unbelievable! Who thinks of buying a solar-powered scale in a situation like this?

We went back home empty-handed. The kids’ phones were dead. We were turning mine and my husband’s phones on every two or three hours, sending short messages to my brother, my mother, and my mother-in-law, then turning them off again.

Around noon, at the 24th hour of the blackout, the police car passed by again making an announcement. They said that China, Russia, and India still had power, but that in countries like Turkey and other western Asian nations, the electricity had also gone out. We already knew that Turkey had gone dark about four hours earlier, starting from Izmir.

My mother was 75 years old. I was worrying about how she would handle this on her own in Izmir. I thought it would be good if my aunt and uncle, who lived nearby, moved in with her since her house was big. Thankfully, they had the same idea and were now staying together.

The police concluded their announcement by reminding us not to panic, saying that police stations and municipal collection points had staff ready to help. Whoever came up with these loudspeaker announcements from police cars was doing a terrible job—they were causing panic instead of informing people properly. We started thinking about how the countries that still had electricity were all BRICS members. Had they sabotaged the world? But soon after, when we realised that Brazil and South Africa—also BRICS members—were in the dark too, we abandoned that theory.

This time, we decided we needed not just solar-powered devices but also dry food, a battery-powered radio, and things like toilet paper that had run out quickly during the COVID period. So again, we took the kids with us and went outside.

Normally, our neighbours wouldn’t even say “Bonjour” in the elevator, but now they had gathered in the lobby, talking loudly. The homeless people in the streets were shouting happily. Maybe they felt a sense of unity and joy that people like us had ended up in such an unusual situation—who knows.

It was Tuesday noon, and the kids’ flight was on Thursday evening. We decided we also needed to find out what was happening at the airport. My son argued that there was no reason for flights to be cancelled, since planes run on kerosene, pilots communicate via radio, and the runways can be lit with generators.

We were a generation dependent on electricity. Even my 75-year-old mother’s generation had grown up with electricity. Maybe they weren’t born with dishwashers, but they had ceiling lights and plug-in radios. We regretted not thinking to buy a battery-powered radio when we were looking for a solar charger in the morning.

We decided to fill up both our cars with gas. To stay together, we took my car first. There was a long queue in front of the gas station. The whole city was in a panic. Everyone was trying to save themselves, just like us.

While I was waiting in the gas line with the kids in the car, my husband said it made sense for him to ride his bike and get a battery-powered radio so as not to waste time. He had his own bicycle. Of course, there were also Bixi bikes in the city, but since the power was out, they were all locked in their stations and couldn’t be used. Less than an hour later, just as we had advanced a little in the line, he came back with a battery radio and lots of batteries, and threw them in the trunk.

By the third day of the outage, we had a battery-powered radio, a fully fueled car, lots of candles, and although we couldn’t find pasta, we had dry foods like rice, bulgur, lentils, and chickpeas, plus onions and garlic. With these ingredients, we could cook unique Turkish meals and live without shopping for a month. We even managed to buy a few packs of Evian water, and, because my husband said, “I can’t get through this without beer and wine,” we got those too. Stores were running out of products.

The kids wanted to relax a bit and go to the pool on the terrace, but they came back soon with long faces. Since the cleaning pump wasn’t working, the pool had been closed. Since they couldn’t access the rental Bixi bikes they had enjoyed using for the past two weeks, they decided to take turns using my husband’s bike.

Sometimes we left the kids at home and went out to get supplies. My son stayed glued to the radio and would tell us all the news when we came back. He believed most in the alien invasion theory, while I thought it was some kind of sabotage or war.

On Wednesday evening, we learned that the airport had been closed for security reasons and that flights had been suspended for a while. The kids panicked, saying, “We’re stranded in Canada with a whole ocean between us and home.” My son said he hadn’t downloaded his university materials, so he couldn’t study for his exams now. My 17-year-old nephew cried, “Will I never see my parents again?”

The world wasn’t in full chaos—everyone was trying to manage the situation as best as they could. On Wednesday evening, we went to the Montreal port and found out there were ships leaving for Europe. They planned to reach Rotterdam in the Netherlands in 12 days. Normally this route was used for cargo, but due to the situation, a few tourist cruise ships had canceled their tours and were taking passengers to Europe instead. We could leave on Saturday. Since my husband didn’t want to send us alone, he informed his work and decided to come with us.

While waiting for Saturday, we learned that the city of Montreal had opened a few solar-powered charging stations. On Thursday, the kids queued with their phones. After waiting eight hours, their phones were charged before ours died.

We decided to ship one of our cars—my car—to Rotterdam. Once there, it would help us get home somehow. Anyway, when we permanently moved back from Canada, we had planned to bring this sports car with us. My husband’s car was a company car, so it would stay here. On Friday, he returned it to the company just in case. At home, we started packing our most important belongings. I was also preparing provisions for the road. There was still fresh bread at the bakery on the lower floor of Bonsecours Market—we would queue up early in the morning to get some.

During those days, we realized how dependent humanity is on a regulated life—and of course, on electricity. In Stockholm, the weather hadn’t been great either, so my brother had started using solar energy more cautiously. Even after four days, no clear explanation for the blackout was given—speculations were everywhere.

My sister and her husband’s house was in the southern suburbs of Stockholm, eight kilometers from my brother’s. They said they would sometimes bike over to charge their phones from my brother’s solar panel. In Stockholm, things were more intense; looting had made people uneasy.

In Canada, although some local grids managed to come back online briefly, they would crash again after a few hours. Satellites and GSM were still functioning, and the internet hadn’t totally collapsed. We didn’t know how long this blackout would last. Maybe a few weeks, maybe a few years, maybe forever.

On Saturday morning, we loaded our Saab Cabrio to the brim and went to the port early. Now, with the car below and us on deck, as we slowly set off into the ocean, I looked back. I didn’t know if I would ever see this city again. Some of our belongings were still in our apartment here, but we were happy to be heading home—to the old continent.

Deep inside, I felt that humanity was entering a new era. In this era, there might be no electricity or internet, but love, friendship, and imagination would always remain.

That night, my son, my nephew, my husband, and I leaned back-to-back on the ship’s deck and looked up at the stars. They were still shining.

 

17- Family Reunion (Part 2)

 

As the garden slowly surrendered its suffocating heat to the comfort of the evening breeze, Çiğdem slid back the iron bolt and opened the courtyard gate to a stranger she did not recognize. She shielded the guest so the heavy gate wouldn’t swing back on him. The mysterious gentleman, who gracefully stepped out of a beautiful car, stirred not just her curiosity but everyone else's as well.

While Çiğdem and her husband Jacques greeted the guest, Uncle Ayhan had also risen from his seat, quickening his steps toward the gate until he was out of breath. The guest handed Çiğdem a Dom Perignon champagne he brought in a cooler bag. Ayhan embraced him tightly and for a long moment. “Sinan, my old friend, welcome,” he said. That was when Çiğdem realized this was the famous Lawyer Sinan Bey. “Mr. Sinan, how thoughtful of you,” she said, thanking him for the gift.

Çiğdem had a bit of a role in his arrival. She had only spoken to Sinan Bey on the phone, so this was the first time she saw his face. Truth be told, she hadn't expected him to suddenly show up like this. In the 150-page family book she had written, she had only devoted two pages to her mother’s and uncle’s years in Istanbul. She had only learned about this old love story of her mother’s during a visit in November — her mother, a deeply reserved woman, had never mentioned it. She had learned the story thanks to her Aunt Hale. For years, her mother hadn't said a word about that romance. In fact, while writing the book, she hadn’t been helpful at all — always responding with “I don’t know” or “I forgot,” which had driven Çiğdem crazy. One day, she even told her, “Mom, you should have been a KGB agent.”

Her main sources had been her eighty-year-old Aunt Ayla and her younger, sharp-minded Aunt Hale, who was nine years younger and had an elephant’s memory. Aunt Ayla was her connection to the 1950s and 60s. She had vividly described their mother’s youth, their grandfather’s love for vinyl records, and daily life in those times. But in 1971, Ayla had met her future husband, a man from Denizli living in Munich, through a newspaper ad. They married and moved to Germany, had daughters Pelin and Selin, and returned permanently to Turkey in 1985, settling in Denizli. That’s why the 1970s were Aunt Hale’s domain.

When Çiğdem visited Aunt Hale in Istanbul, she had shared every detail down to the tiniest bits. Hale was like a living encyclopedia of family history. She had told her everything from Çiğdem’s childhood 4K project, to the mischief she caused at school, to the burrs that clung to her hair walking through courtyards. There was enough material to write a whole book just on Aunt Hale. But out of fairness to the other siblings, Çiğdem hadn’t included even a tenth of it in her family book.

Once she had learned Sinan’s full name, tracking him down hadn’t been hard. Despite being over seventy, he still had a law practice. In addition to being a corporate attorney for several family-owned businesses, he also provided free legal aid to women facing domestic abuse. Çiğdem had visited his office in hopes of collecting photos and stories from her mother’s and uncle’s university days. The secretary told her Sinan Bey was in Antalya for a case but could be reached by phone immediately.

From the emotional tone of his voice on the phone, it wasn’t hard to tell how deeply attached he still was to her mother. When he said he’d be doing a historical tour of Amasra with his daughters that summer, Çiğdem, more out of politeness than intent, had said, “Well then, feel free to join our family gathering in Filyos.” No date, no formal invitation. In fact, she had regretted the offer the moment she made it and had promptly forgotten about it. Apparently, Sinan Bey had not. He had called Uncle Ayhan and managed to get himself invited.

Leman Hanım, seated midway down the table, stood slightly and grasped her chair as if undecided whether to walk toward the gate, instead choosing to wait as the guest entered the garden. She had recognized him but didn’t want to act hastily without being certain.

Seeing Sinan flustered her and brought a blush to her cheeks. Though she blamed Ayhan for being inconsiderate, her dimples and sparkling eyes betrayed her excitement. Still, she did not approve of her brother inviting Sinan, his old university friend, to a family event.

Ayhan had met Sinan on his first day at Istanbul University’s Law Faculty — a random seating arrangement sparked a friendship that lasted the entire first year. They were inseparable.

When Ayhan started his second year, Leman was accepted into the university’s Literature Faculty and moved to Istanbul. She lived with her brother in their modest apartment in Fatih and walked with him to school. She had met Sinan on her first day, and the spark between them had been instant. That spark had made her shy and timid around him ever since.

Sinan came from a well-established, well-off Istanbul family, but like Ayhan, he embraced the ideals of the 1968 movement and spoke of dismantling the bourgeoisie. Despite this, his elegant demeanor, perfect Turkish, pressed shirts, and Galatasaray High School friends revealed his bourgeois roots.

Five months after registering at the university, Leman’s father passed away. Ayhan was already on the brink of being expelled due to student activism. With the loss of their father and financial strain worsening, he dropped out in the middle of his second year to work at a law office as a clerk. He paid rent and supported Leman through school until she graduated and became a literature teacher in Ankara. Leman would never forget her brother’s sacrifice.

Their widowed mother and unmarried sister Ayla took over the household responsibilities. Luckily, the two middle sisters were in a boarding school on full scholarship. But there were still three younger siblings at home between the ages of 10 and 14. They were difficult years, and Ayhan had sacrificed himself for the family. Later, he married Gül, Leman’s classmate.

During those university years, Sinan would often visit their home. Leman and Sinan had never expressed their feelings beyond a few stolen glances and brief conversations. That was until Leman’s graduation ceremony. Sinan, who had graduated the year before, came with flowers. While Ayhan and his wife were in the kitchen, Sinan had pulled Leman aside, kissed her, and said, “One day I will marry you — don’t disappear.”

But life took a different turn. Shortly after Leman was posted to Ankara in 1972, she met Serdar, her teacher colleague’s older brother. Within a year, they were married. Serdar came from a family similar to hers. He had studied economics at the Faculty of Political Science and had a good job at the State Planning Organization. At the time, Leman found Sinan too bourgeois and believed his family would never allow him to marry someone from the provinces like her. After a heated argument beginning with “Lawyer Sinan Bey,” she became angry and requested a transfer to one of Ankara’s more prestigious schools.

She and Serdar had what could be called a happy marriage, and three children. When their daughters Çiğdem and Deniz were 7 and 5, the 1980 military coup took place. It ruined Serdar’s political career and forced the family to seek asylum in Switzerland due to his political activities. Their son Onur was born in Basel. Years later, after the children had grown, their 30-year marriage ended in divorce. Leman moved to her summer house in Izmir, devoting herself to her garden and her vast library. Around ten years ago, she had published a poetry book.

Now Ayhan and Sinan were walking toward her. With a theatrical but familiar flourish from the past, Sinan took Leman’s hand and gently brought it to his lips with a light kiss, saying, “Enchanté, madame.” Then, to avoid further embarrassing Leman, he followed Ayhan’s lead and walked with her toward the head of the table.

Leman remembered the argument they had when they parted ways half a century ago, and also how they reconciled fourteen years earlier at the funeral of Sinan’s mother, Jale Hanım. With those thoughts, she returned to her seat, deciding to give the two friends some time and join them later.

Çiğdem had left Jacques by the E-type and returned to the table, taking the seat across from her mother. About ten minutes before Sinan’s arrival, she had distributed the booklet she had prepared about the family history. Her cousin Selin had also scattered handmade bookmarks with personalized designs across the table, and guests were now eagerly and playfully trying to find their own. They were chatting about the patterns on the bookmarks and the contents of Çiğdem’s booklet, joking about the mini skirts Aunt Hale and Aunt Nejla wore in the 1970s, praising their beauty. The aunts, now with wavy white hair and sweet grandmotherly smiles, had once been striking women — one brunette, the other blonde — like Turkish versions of Charlie’s Angels.

Uncle Ayhan seated his guest at the head of the table, between himself and his sister Ayla. “Set a place for our guest, kids,” he said to the younger ones as if speaking to waitstaff.

The young people were wearing white t-shirts that Çiğdem had printed. On the front was a mulberry tree with “1915” written above it, and on its branches, starting from the grandparents down to the smallest twigs, the names of the grandchildren. At the top, it read “Filyos Reunion 2024,” symbolizing the hope for future gatherings.

Sinan took off his hat and laid it beside him on the table, running his fingers through his graying, wavy hair. While filling Sinan’s glass with raki, Ayhan said, “Leave the car here, sleep at Yeni Konak tonight — or the kids will take you, wherever that campsite was... Was it Amasra?” Then without waiting for an answer, he added, “Never mind, you’ll stay with us. I’m not letting the kids drive around at night.” Then they dove into a long conversation about old times.

Ayhan said, “My friend, I was just thinking... in the summer of 1968, when I came here on vacation, my father seriously considered tearing down this wooden house to build a new concrete one. He was constantly sketching out plans. Thankfully, he never started. We lost him that December. What would we have done then? An unfinished house, middle sisters just starting boarding school, three small kids at home, my mother, my older sister... tough days. But my mother managed to get by in this house. She even sold produce from the garden and eggs from the chickens. Anyway, the girls finished school, and things got better.”

Listening to all this, Sinan felt a bit ashamed. Back in those days, he would escape his parents’ grand waterfront mansion and come eat at their modest home, only to return to Bebek from Fatih by bedtime. Of course, he wasn’t a freeloader — he always brought something when he visited. When they went out drinking, he would cover the bill, but to him, those were small expenses. Ayhan ended with, “Those were hard days.”

Why had one of the wealthiest families in the region before 1940 become so poor that they had to sell eggs in the market within thirty years? While WWII raged across Europe and Turkish men were drafted amid war fears, the only difference between this family and the peasants they once looked down on was that they didn’t starve.

Over the following two decades, the family steadily lost its former wealth — they became poorer, but more enlightened. In the 1960s, they had led the way in educating girls in the district. Çiğdem’s grandfather, Rıza Bey, had become a progressive figure who read Ulus newspaper columns by Çetin Altan to the children by lamplight. Leman and her brother Ayhan had been sent to university in Istanbul, while the middle sisters, Hale and Nejla, were enrolled in a boarding teacher’s college. Leman had been the first woman in the entire town of Filyos to attend university.

Now, Aunt Nejla and Aunt Hale, whispering to each other in the middle of the U-shaped table arrangement, lived in Istanbul and had for many years. But they had first come to the city as teenagers, 15 or 16 years old, tagging along insistently when their father brought Leman to enroll in university. They later spent a few winter breaks in Istanbul. Back then, they had teased and joked about this man who was always around their older sister at the time. Now, fifty years later, they were whispering, “Why has he come here now?” In the background, the song “Don’t think I’ll be fooled twice…” by Nilüfer was playing.

In the aftermath of the 1980 military coup, Ayhan was arrested for union activities and organizing workers. Sinan served as his lawyer but couldn’t prevent him from spending two years in prison. That same year, Sinan lost his father in a tragic accident, and never having quite recovered from the heartbreak caused by Leman’s marriage, he fell into a deeper depression. In 1981, he moved to Paris to pursue a PhD in Commercial Law at the Sorbonne. He never married Estelle, whom he met five years later, but they had twin daughters together. When the girls were ten, Estelle married an American and moved to the U.S., leaving the girls in Sinan’s care.

“How old are the twins now?” Ayhan asked. “Camille and Chloé are 38,” Sinan replied. Ayhan’s eyes welled up. “Well, the years fly by. My eldest just turned 50 the other day. Hasn’t spoken to me since I separated from his mother. I raised a glass in his honor.”

Ayhan spoke of his divorce from Gül, his retirement, and move back to his hometown, and of his son’s long silence. Then, realizing he had interrupted his friend, he said, “So, you were saying — the girls. Last I saw them, they were still young. What are they up to now?”

“They’re doing well. Both married. I’ve got four adorable grandkids. So sweet, I could eat them up!” Sinan laughed. “You know, my sister never married. She’s helped raise the girls like they were her own since they were little. Remember how you used to call her ‘Snobby Suna’? We used to laugh so hard. Suna plays the piano beautifully — so did my mother. Remember? She loved La Bohème by Aznavour.” He paused, then added, “We last saw each other at my mother’s funeral.”

Both men fell silent for a moment, remembering Jale Hanım. A true lady, she had remained elegant until her death at 79 from Alzheimer’s. “Of course, Suna studied classical music,” Sinan continued. “She practically raised the girls — art, painting, ballet, piano. And now she’s onto the grandkids. But it’s good for them. I’m the playful grandpa, she’s the strict aunt.” He laughed. “These days, the girls are seeing their mother more often, too. That makes me happy. And me? Just living a retired life now, taking on the occasional case.”

Ayhan had never met Estelle. But he said thoughtfully, “It’s good the girls are reconnecting with their mom…” He remembered how much he had disliked Suna in their youth. He even recalled how Gül had been jealous of this love-hate dynamic and chuckled to himself. Changing the subject, he pointed to Çiğdem and Jacques sitting at the center of the table. “Leman’s son-in-law is French… Well, no — Belgian, but he speaks French. I think he really liked your car. Hasn’t left it alone for ten minutes. His name’s Jacques. Çiğdem’s husband. She even called you about that book project — tracked down the entire family tree like a detective. You’ll talk later, I’m sure. Now, let’s raise a glass to our reunion!” he said, lifting his glass.

To be continued in Part 3. Next week.

The Guest from the Past

The table set in the family home’s garden is shaken by the unexpected arrival of a long-lost guest: Lawyer Sinan, Leman Hanım’s university sweetheart. This surprise visit opens doors to both youthful memories and buried family history. As Çiğdem’s family research and book bring old relationships to light, the family gathered around the table begins to reconnect not only with their shared past but with each other. This reunion, blending old friendships, loss, regrets, and a hint of hope, will carry the traces of the past into the present.

 

 

16- Family Reunion

 

In the spacious area stretching from the courtyard gate to the house, two long tables had been set up. Great-uncle Ayhan and great-aunt Ayla were seated at the head of the table. Other family members had also taken their seats. Uncles Turgay and Ertan were by the barbecue grilling the meat, while members of the third generation were distributing it onto plates.

Coloured decorations hanging from the branches of plum and mulberry trees swayed gently in the breeze, along with solar-powered lights that had been charging all day. String lights had been strung across the centre of the tables to be switched on once darkness fell. On this warm July evening, the sun was still scorching the earth as it made its way west.

Outside the large iron gate of the courtyard, family members’ cars were parked in a line. When Çiğdem noticed a pair of headlights approaching, she glanced at the table to see if there were still guests who hadn’t arrived. Everyone was there, including her cousin Nesil, who had just made it after her daughter’s conservatory exam in Ankara. However, considering the sheer size of her mother’s extended family from Filyos to Mengen, it wasn’t impossible for uninvited guests to show up.

As the car drew nearer, Çiğdem saw that it was a sky-blue, convertible Jaguar E-Type from the 1960s — exactly the sort of striking beauty her husband Jacques would admire. Seeing such a rare car in these parts surprised her. Driven by a mix of curiosity and a protective instinct, she walked towards the gate — Jacques joined her, likely just as intrigued by the car as she was. The others at the table turned their eyes in that direction too. The car came to a stop about five or six metres ahead, beside the second row of vehicles.

Çiğdem had been planning this large family gathering for over a year — and finally, the day had come. They were in the garden of the large wooden house where her mother Leman had been born seventy-five years earlier, in the ancient coastal town of Filyos by the Black Sea. Her mother was the third of eight siblings — all of whom were present that day.

Çiğdem had taken inspiration from the family reunions on Jacques’s maternal side, which were held annually in Brussels. Her mother-in-law Jacqueline’s mother was called Marie. Since 15 August, the Assumption of Mary, is a public holiday in Catholic countries and schools are closed for summer, the idea of turning that date into a family party had first come from the eldest sister forty years ago, and the tradition had continued without fail ever since. As Jacques’s wife, Çiğdem was always invited to these gatherings.

Jacques’s family also had seven siblings, and like her mother, his mother was the third child. Each sibling had three to five children. With daughters-in-law, sons-in-law, grandchildren and now their partners too, they had become a family of nearly one hundred and twenty people. Of course, divorces and changing relationships meant the attendees changed a bit each year,  some faces disappeared, new ones joined, but the annual party never dropped below seventy or eighty attendees.

One of Jacques’s great-aunt’s daughters was married to an MP — a true politician who loved being the centre of attention. He would take the microphone and never let go, speaking passionately, getting the family to sing songs together, encouraging dancing, introducing newcomers, cracking jokes. At her first attendance, he had handed the microphone to Çiğdem and asked her to sing. Embarrassed, she had only managed a brief greeting. Over time, though, she had got to know the aunts and cousins, and grown very fond of them.

Her dream of organising a similar event for her own family grew stronger with each passing year. Çiğdem greatly admired large families. As her own siblings lived in different countries, she only saw them at Christmas and in the summer. She longed for shared holidays like Jacques had with his family. But her busy professional life had not allowed time to realise that dream.

In 2023, everything changed. When her husband received a job offer in Canada, Çiğdem decided to take a break from work and follow him. That’s how they ended up in Quebec for a year and a half. That summer, with more time on her hands, she developed the idea of a family gathering in her mind and thought, “Well then, I can organise this myself.” And so she got started.

Her mother Leman had one more sibling than her mother-in-law, but the number of children and grandchildren was far fewer. After listing them all, including their spouses, Çiğdem realised they didn’t even reach fifty. She thought, “At least thirty of us could come together.” Things were easier with Jacques’s family — most of them lived within a hundred-kilometre radius of Brussels. But her own relatives were scattered not only across Turkey but all over Europe. Different countries in Europe, different cities in Turkey.

The family loved and visited one another. A few had even gone on a Balkan tour together the previous year. But gathering all eight siblings at once would be a first. Perhaps it couldn’t become a yearly tradition like Jacques’s family had, but Çiğdem was determined to make it happen — at least once — in July 2024.

Eleven months in advance, she created two WhatsApp groups — one for the whole family, and another for four people she thought might help with planning. As soon as the groups were set up, she found herself engaged with the family and was thrilled to see how warmly her idea was received. Her enthusiasm only grew. Her great-aunt Ayla in particular said, “I really admire you, Çiğdem. You’re making something happen for the first time. Thank you so much.” It moved Çiğdem deeply.

She had invited her middle uncle Turgay — who lived near Filyos — to her small planning group, which she called “Organised Affairs.” She also included great-aunt Ayla’s daughters Selin and Pelin, and her great-uncle Ayhan who lived in Zonguldak. Turgay took charge of food and drink. Selin and Pelin helped with decorations and activities. Uncle Ayhan hired a gardener to prepare the garden for visitors.

Of course, there were dissenting voices in the family. One cousin who ran a café in Urla said July was their busiest month. Another, Nesil, said it clashed with her daughter’s conservatory exams. The cousin in Venice, Ulaş, couldn’t even be reached. Perhaps he didn’t want to come due to a strained relationship with his father, Ayhan.

Tensions and even arguments flared up over trivial matters during those days. When Çiğdem told Jacques, “Your lot deserve a medal. Mine have started fighting before we’ve even gathered,” Jacques calmly reassured her with his soft voice: “It happens in every family, love. Don’t worry.” He then told her how his youngest uncle would act up when drunk, how Aunt Miette would take his side, and how that had led to countless rows. That uncle no longer came to the gatherings. Çiğdem had never even met him.

In October — around the time she began trying her hand at writing — and with nine months still to go until the reunion, Çiğdem had another brilliant idea. She would write a family chronicle and distribute it at the event. In Jacques’s family, there was always a huge photo album about a metre tall, smaller albums, and memory books brought to the gatherings. Çiğdem had pored over these with great interest and found joy in seeing the youthful pictures of people now in their seventies and eighties.

In November, she left her husband behind in Canada and travelled to Turkey for six weeks. With her mother Leman, she packed suitcases in Izmir and set off on a family tour. Starting in Izmir, they visited each aunt and uncle one by one in Bursa, Denizli, and Istanbul. Çiğdem scanned and copied the photos everyone had, and gathered stories and information about grandparents and their lives.

Unfortunately, there weren’t enough photographs to create a large, beautiful album like the one Jacques’s family had. The oldest picture she could find dated back to 1935. It was a passport-style photo of her great-grandfather Mehmet Bey, born in 1877, at the age of 58. From the period between 1935 and 1965, there were barely thirty photos. Some of them were so worn and faded that it was impossible to recognise the people in them.

When they reached their final stop in Zonguldak, and from there travelled with her great uncle Ayhan to the abandoned family house in Filyos, she was bitterly disappointed. The house, which she hadn’t seen in years, had turned into a ruin. The large garden was overrun with brambles, ivy and tall grass. This grand wooden house, which the elders in the family once referred to as the “New Mansion,” was far from new—in fact, it was completely dilapidated. The only reason for its name was that her grandfather’s grandfather Osman Bey had built a house in the 1880s, which they called the Old Mansion. When Mehmet Bey, Osman’s son, had a house built a hundred metres further in 1915, it naturally came to be known as the New Mansion. After the Old Mansion was demolished in the 1950s, the name remained, even though the second house had long since lost its former glory. The mulberry tree planted beside it was now 110 years old. It still bore delicious fruit, but the house looked as though it would collapse if thirty or forty people were to enter it.

It was in this house that Mehmet Bey’s seven children had been born. The youngest of them, Rıza Bey, was Çiğdem’s grandfather. Though his older siblings were born during the Ottoman era, he was a child of the Republic.

Years later, Rıza Bey raised his own family in this house, bringing up eight children under its roof. But now, the house Çiğdem saw had long since lost its splendour. Time, along with the Black Sea’s humidity, had devoured its carpets, books and photographs. Some of the items she remembered from her childhood had been thrown away in recent years due to neglect. The huge house had slightly tilted due to soil subsidence, floorboards had broken and holes now connected the upper floor to the one below. The wood had blackened; the white lace curtains in the bay windows had yellowed.

Çiğdem looked at the house with sadness. Hosting guests inside was clearly impossible. However, a gathering in the garden could still be arranged. The garden was neglected, but could be cleaned up. Given that the Black Sea summer was notoriously unpredictable and sudden downpours could happen at any moment, they would need to procure tarpaulins.

But perhaps due to climate change, the summer of 2024 began with scorching heat. Not a drop of rain fell throughout June. When the organising committee arrived in Filyos a week before the gathering, the grass was as yellow as if they were in the Aegean, and they had to water it themselves.

And so, on that sweltering July evening, the family had gathered in the garden of the New Mansion, cheerfully chatting away. Laughter echoed all around, a curated playlist of Turkish jazz and classical songs played softly on Spotify in the background, accompanying the flow of memories.

As Çiğdem approached the gate, a stylish man in his seventies stepped out of the pale blue vintage car, wearing a white linen shirt over beige trousers and leaning on a cane. He retrieved a fedora from the back seat of the open-top car, placed it on his head and began walking towards them. A few people at the tables stood up. The lively crowd in front of the massive, darkened wooden house fell silent, and in the background, Ajda Pekkan’s voice—“But alas, the street was empty…”—was left all alone.

Back in November, when Çiğdem had come here, she had met many people and even consulted two regional authors to learn about the family’s more distant history. She searched her memory—was this man one of them? No, he wasn’t.

One of the authors was Ali Nuri Bey, a 90-year-old graduate of the Village Institutes. He had served as a school principal in the area and written books about the region’s history. The other was a retired teacher descended from her grandmother’s line, who had written a genealogical study tracing the Rumbeyoğlu family’s 550-year history. Since two grand viziers had come from that family, Çiğdem had found further information both online and in academic sources. She had brought both authors’ books back to Montreal, signed. Upon returning, she had compiled photos, memories, historical documents, and findings from academic theses and DNA research into a booklet over the course of four or five months.

In the booklet, she had also described the changes in the region: the collapse of bridges over the wild Filyos River, boatmen pulling ferries with ropes, the region’s old churches and mosques, family members who had commissioned these buildings, and how education evolved from concubines to primary schools with the advent of the Republic.

This man wasn’t one of those writers; he looked like an Istanbul gentleman. It would be quite something if he turned out to be a descendant of one of the ancestors she had found in Ottoman archives. But surely those people had no way of knowing a gathering was happening here.

During the Ottoman era, her mother’s family had been monarchists. Her grandmother’s lineage traced back to two grand viziers—one from the reign of Mehmed the Conqueror and the other from that of Abdul Hamid I. Their sons continued to work at the palace and married into the dynasty. The second vizier, Rumbeyoğlu İsmet Pasha, was known for being pleasure-seeking and even rather lazy. But he was apparently very funny. He had commissioned the largest waterfront mansion along the Bosphorus. Of course, it now belonged to the Komili family. For a moment, Çiğdem imagined this man stepping forward and handing her the keys to that mansion. Then she smiled, shaking herself out of her daydream. With the Tanzimat reforms, those who didn’t know French and couldn’t adapt to change were pushed away from the palace. Her ancestors had returned to Filyos in the 1840s, where they acted as regional beys. But some of their younger brothers had clung to the monarchy until the last possible moment, raising their sons to be diplomats. One such son had taken part in the Treaty of Sèvres and ended up on Atatürk’s list of 150 undesirable persons, sent into exile. She couldn’t help but wonder—was this man his grandson?

There had also been curious cases of adopted children in the family. She had learned that adopted children couldn’t inherit and that in some cases, they might have been born out of wedlock. Perhaps he was one of them—who knows?

Though she had gathered information about the men in the family, she had learned little about the women. Ah, she thought, if only the Surname Law had been introduced a century earlier, during the Tanzimat period, how much more information we would have had about the women. Perhaps this man descended from one of those female branches—who knows?

As the garden gradually surrendered its stifling heat to the relief of the evening breeze, Çiğdem, still wondering who this stranger was, pushed the iron bolt and opened the courtyard gate, bracing herself to stop the heavy gate from swinging shut on the guest. The mysterious gentleman who had descended so nimbly from the beautiful car had sparked everyone’s curiosity—not just hers.

To be continued in Part 2. Next week...

 

Reuniting at the Roots, Living in the Memories.

In the garden of her mother’s childhood home on the Black Sea coast, Çiğdem organises a large family gathering. Inspired by her Belgian husband’s family reunions, she works for months to bring relatives together and prepares a booklet documenting their history. The overgrown garden of the crumbling mansion is cleared, tables are set. Just as everything seems to be going perfectly, the arrival of a mysterious man in a classic convertible hints at long-buried family secrets. Family Reunion is a warm tale woven with heritage, memory, and the bonds that tie generations together.

 

02- Aunt Lili

02 - Aunt Lili

Aunt Lili was 79 years old. She had been born into a wealthy family in Belgium, but life had drawn a difficult path for her. Her husband, Viktor, whom she married for love, was a kind, gentle, and humane man. He was also well-educated. However, when it came to work, he was a complete adventurer and very irresponsible. He constantly came up with new business ideas, but none of them ever brought in income that could contribute to the family. Because of this, they endured years of unnecessary poverty.

The couple had two sons. When they reached school age, she gave birth to two more sons, hoping for a daughter. But her life became a cycle of raising four boys and dealing with Viktor’s failures. For years, she bore all the burden on her shoulders—trying to support the household on a teacher’s salary, managing the housework and the children’s education. They always lived on the edge of poverty. Apart from a road trip to Italy in the 1970s when they had only two children, there were few opportunities for long travels.

The years passed like this; the sons grew up and set off into life. Only after retiring was Lili finally able to part ways with Viktor. Despite all those years, they had never managed to buy a home and had always lived in rented flats. It upset her that half of her small pension went on rent. However, for the first time in her life, being able to save a little and go on holiday every other year had become one of her greatest pleasures.

She read a great deal, and seeing the places she read about with her own eyes was one of her biggest dreams. That’s how she found herself travelling to places like Uzbekistan and Egypt—places most women her age wouldn’t dare to visit. She disliked luxury, preferred to get to know the locals and the culture, and would rather brush her teeth in the waters of the Nile than stay in a fancy hotel.

Despite her advancing age, she never considered retreating from life. She took great joy in helping her grandchildren with their homework and gathering her sons around her to cook delicious meals. She preferred to be called Aunt Lili instead of Mrs Lili. Though she never had a daughter, she had formed bonds with both the former and current wives of her sons. She even liked the second wife of her eldest son, Eda. She would share memories with her, gossip about her sons, and talk about her travels. With a few glasses of wine, her tongue would loosen, and they would have long, laughter-filled conversations.

Not long ago, while reading a novel by Marie-Bernadette Dupuy alongside her sister Ella, she added a new place to her list of dreams. The book spoke of a small town and a young girl who grew up there. This town had been built in 1901 around a paper mill. At the time, it was considered a model modern settlement and developed rapidly. But only twenty-five years later, the factory shut down, and the town was completely abandoned.

Interestingly, this wasn’t a fictional place. It was a ghost town in the deep forests of Canada, beneath a waterfall—Val-Jalbert. Back when it was built, many homes around the world didn’t have running water or toilets, but the workers’ houses here were equipped with both, and villagers from surrounding areas would come out of curiosity just to see them. While it had once been a dreamlike town, after the factory shut, it was left to disappear into nature’s arms for forty years. In the 1960s, it was overrun by hippies and vandalised. But for the last forty years, it had been protected, restored, and turned into an open-air museum.

What affected Aunt Lili so deeply was the fact that the young girl in the book had the same surname as her own mother. That’s why she read the novel as if conducting a genealogy study, paying close attention to every detail. As she read, the tragic fate of this town captivated her. How could a place so far ahead of its time have been completely abandoned? And so, the ghost town became a place she longed to see with all her heart.

As soon as she learnt that her eldest son and daughter-in-law Eda would be moving to Quebec for a while, her first move was to pull out a map and examine the distance between Quebec City and Val-Jalbert. She was overjoyed. Though she wasn’t particularly close to the gods, she chuckled and told her old friend Marianne: “Oh darling, I dream, and the gods roll up their sleeves to lay the stepping stones to carry me to my dreams.” A month after they had moved into their home, they invited her to spend a few weeks with them.

From the moment she stepped off the plane, Lili fell in love with Canada. Well, once someone sets their mind on loving a place, they’ll find a way to love it. Armed with her smartphone, which she had become well acquainted with in recent years, she was constantly gathering information and even adored the Canadian French, which was so different from the one she spoke. She spent her first days in Canada looking up towns around Lake Saint-Jean on her phone and map, jotting down ideas in her notebook in her loopy handwriting. Eda and her son researched hotels and restaurants.

Finally, the big day arrived. They laughed at the funny stories Eda made up about Canadian lumberjacks and breathed in the fresh air through the car’s open roof. As they neared Lake Saint-Jean, Lili turned into an excited young girl again. She started pointing left and right, guiding them as if she were showing places she had known all her life.

When they arrived at the hotel—an old monastery turned into a guesthouse—they found their room numbers handwritten on a sign on the wall, and the doors were unlocked. The enormous kitchen downstairs was available for guests to cook their own meals. A fire burned in the large lounge’s fireplace, guests sat in the dining hall, and a few young children were running around. The atmosphere warmed all three of their hearts.

The next morning, Lili woke up early, got dressed with excitement, and waited for the others in the breakfast room. As the three of them entered Val-Jalbert, “Here we are,” said Eda, linking arms with her mother-in-law. For a moment, they paused time and shared their mutual happiness.

They spent the day there. They visited the rooms where nuns had once stayed in the old school building and sat at students’ desks. The town was just as described: the only place in the region at the time with electricity and running water in homes, admired by villagers who visited in awe. They rode the cable car up to the waterfall and gazed at the view, then looked down at the lake, the dam, and the ruins of the factory. They toured the mill and relived the history of the town step by step.

Val-Jalbert, with its restored houses, old factory buildings, and silent streets, felt frozen in time. With each step, Lili recalled scenes from the novel. “This could be the house where Marie-Claire lived,” she murmured, stopping in front of a small wooden cottage.

On the way back to the hotel, she said, “I want to write a book.” Charles was surprised. “What about, Mum?” he asked. Lili gazed at her fingers for a long time before answering. “About Val-Jalbert. But not just a book that tells its history… The story of a woman visiting this town. Maybe I’ll include other places I’ve been too. Maybe… it’ll be my story. Who knows, maybe I’ll include you as well,” she said, bursting into laughter. All three of them laughed. They exaggerated the roles they wanted to be given in the novel. That evening, as they sipped wine at the monastery-turned-hotel, the stories deepened. It was then that Eda shared for the first time that she had also tried to write. But hers were just little tales of four or five pages. She knew her mother-in-law’s way with words was far stronger. She said she was looking forward to the book.

When the book was published a year later under the title Aunt Lili on the Road, it created a small literary sensation in Belgium. The travelogue, written by an 80-year-old woman, not only recounted her experiences in Egypt, Romania, Uzbekistan, and Canada, but also told a life story full of dreams, hopes, and disappointments.

When she returned to Quebec for the book’s promotion, she visited Val-Jalbert once more. This time, her name was also written on the plaque at the entrance to the town:

“Aunt Lili, the Woman Who Carried the Spirit of Val-Jalbert, was here.”