Daniel showed the doctor Robert’s letter.
And the doctor noticed an address written on the back.
It was the address of an old medical archive.
A few days later, Daniel went there.
He returned that evening carrying an envelope.
“Mom, you need to read this.”
Inside was a family photograph from 1968.
Robert, me, and our two little children.
But on the back of the photograph, Robert had written something.
“Our third child is still alive. Margaret doesn’t know.”
My entire world collapsed.
Because in 1968, I had been told that my newborn daughter had not survived.
For fifty-eight years, I had believed she was gone.
And now, a message written in my late husband’s handwriting claimed that my daughter was alive.
Daniel took my hand.
“Mom… I’ve already found her.”
I could barely whisper.
“Where is she?”
At that exact moment, our doorbell rang.
Daniel looked at me and whispered:
