The faded plastic strip bore one handwritten word.
BABY NOVAK.
She pressed it against her lips.
Dad looked away.
The photograph showed Mom at twenty.
I knew her immediately.
Younger.
Thinner.
Terrified.
She sat in a hospital bed holding a bundled infant.
Rebecca.
Dad had never seen the picture.
His hands shook when Claire passed it to him.
“That’s her,” he whispered.
“My mother,” Claire said.
Dad nodded.
“My daughter.”
He cried again.
This time no one looked away.
The document was a copy of Rebecca’s adoption record.
The letter was from Mom.
Not Evelyn.
Mara.
She had written it before giving birth.
To my daughter,
I do not know the name you will be given.
I do not know what your room will look like or who will teach you to tie your shoes.
I do not know whether you will hate me.
Maybe you should.
But if you ever find this, I want you to know that you were not unwanted.
