At 20, I found my birth mother, who had me at 17 and gave me up. Heart pounding, I faced her, but she whispered in fear, “Forget about me! My husband would leave if he knew.” Her rejection stung, and I walked away, carrying silent pain.
A year later, a man named Daniel, her husband, appeared at my door. He’d discovered letters she wrote me every birthday, never sent. Handing me a box of them, he said she was in the hospital, wanting me to have them. Each letter began, “To my beautiful child, I think of you every day. I loved you enough to let you go.” Tears fell as I read.
At the hospital, my mother, weak but smiling, whispered, “You came.” The pain of years dissolved. She hadn’t been cruel—just scared. In that moment, I was her child, and she was my mom.
