Inside the box were dozens of envelopes — letters my mom had written to me every year on my birthday. She had kept them hidden, never daring to send them. My hands shook as I opened the first one. “To my beautiful child,” it began, “I think of you every day. Please know I loved you enough to let you go.” Tears blurred the ink as I read her words. Daniel’s voice broke the silence. “She’s in the hospital. She wanted you to have these. She’s been waiting for you.”

I couldn’t breathe. The woman who had rejected me had loved me all along. She hadn’t been cruel — she’d been scared. That night, I walked into a hospital room where my mother lay weak but smiling. “You came,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. And in that moment, the years of pain melted. Because no matter what had happened, I was her child. And she was finally my mom.