“I… I need to talk to you.”
Concern crossed her face. “Is everything okay?”
I took a step closer and reached into my bag, pulling out the letter. My fingers shook as I held it out to her.
She glanced down at the envelope, her expression softening the moment she saw the handwriting.
Slowly, she reached for it, her hands starting to tremble as well.
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
She looked up at me, her eyes filling with tears. And in that moment, without needing me to say anything, she understood.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she whispered, “Can I… can I hug you?”
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
She wrapped her arms around me, and I fell into her. We stood there, crying, holding each other under the soft glow of the parking lot lights.
When we finally stepped back, she smiled through her tears.
“Would you come back inside?
I’d love to talk.”
I nodded, wiping my face.
We sat at a quiet table, away from the others. She poured tea for both of us. At first, we sat in silence.
Then she told me everything.
How young she’d been. How scared. How much she had loved me.
She said my biological father had wanted to keep me, but couldn’t.
They stayed in touch, both wondering about me all these years.
I listened. I told her about my life and childhood. How my parents loved and gave me everything.
“I was angry at them,” I admitted softly.
“But they did love me. They still do.”
Sarah squeezed my hand. “I’m grateful they raised you.”
When we stood to leave, she hugged me again.
“I’d love to see you again,” she said.
“I’d like that,” I answered.
That night, back in my apartment, I picked up my phone. I stared at the screen for a long time before typing the message to the family group.
“Thank you for loving me. Thank you for raising me.
I’m coming home for breakfast tomorrow.”
When I hit send, something inside me finally felt at peace.
Source: amomama
