I spent my whole life mailing letters to the address tied to my missing mother, always clinging to hope—until I finally received a reply that devastated me.
I started pacing.
“When I was six, I snuck into the ophanage record hall and found my file. All it gave me was a picture of you, your name, and your address. That night, I wrote that I had a fever and wanted you there. When I was 10, I asked if I looked like you at my age. When I was sixteen, I wrote that I didn’t need you anymore, then wrote again the next day because I felt guilty.”
She closed her eyes.
“I remember that one,” she whispered.
