My mom had me at 17 and gave me up. At 20, I finally found her, heart racing with hope. But when I stood in front of her, she looked terrified. “Forget about me!” she whispered sharply. “My husband is powerful, and he’d leave me if he knew about you.” Her words felt like a knife. I wanted to scream, to beg her to love me. But instead, I nodded and walked away, carrying the kind of silence that shatters you from the inside out.
For a year, I tried to move on, burying the ache. Then, one rainy evening, a knock came at my door. When I opened it, a tall man in an expensive suit stood there, his eyes glistening. It was her husband. “I’m Daniel,” he said softly. “Your mother’s husband.” I froze, terrified of what he might say. But then, with trembling hands, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small box. “She never told me about you,” he whispered. “But I found the letters.”
