My mother was seventeen when she had me—and seventeen when she let me go.
At twenty, I finally found her. My heart pounded as I stood on her doorstep, hope swelling in my chest. But when she saw me, her face didn’t light up with recognition—it twisted in fear.
*"Forget about me,"* she hissed, glancing over her shoulder. *"My husband is powerful. If he knew you existed, he’d leave me."*
Her words cut deeper than any blade. I wanted to scream, to shake her and demand, *"Why don’t you love me?"*
But I didn’t. I just nodded… and walked away, carrying a silence so heavy it cracked me open from within.
For a year, I tried to move on. I buried the hurt, the questions, the little girl inside me who still ached for her mother.
Then, one stormy night, a knock shattered the quiet of my apartment.
I opened the door to a tall man in a tailored suit, his eyes wet with unshed tears.
*"I’m Daniel,"* he said quietly. *"Your mother’s husband."*
My blood turned to ice. *He knows.* Was he here to threaten me? To warn me away?
But then, with trembling hands, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small wooden box.
*"She never told me about you,"* he admitted, voice breaking. *"But I found these."*
Inside were stacks of envelopes—each one labeled with a year, each one unopened.
*Letters.*
Letters my mother had written to me… every single birthday.
My fingers shook as I unfolded the first one.
*"To my beautiful child,"* it began, *"I think of you every day. I loved you enough to let you go."*
The page blurred as my tears fell.
Daniel’s voice was barely a whisper. *"She’s in the hospital. She wanted you to have these. She’s been waiting… for you."*
My knees nearly gave out.
All this time, I thought she didn’t want me.
But the truth?
She *loved* me. She was just afraid.
That night, I walked into a dim hospital room.
And there she was—frail, pale, but smiling through her tears.
*"You came,"* she whispered.
I took her hand, the years of hurt dissolving in an instant.
Because no matter what had happened…
I was hers.
And she was finally mine.
