I’d spent my life wondering who she was, sure—but always in that safe, abstract way. Quiet moments on long drives, little pangs when someone said I didn’t look like my dad. But I’d made peace with not knowing. I had a good life.
But now she was in my living room.
I looked at her. Same eyes. Same tilt to the chin. My throat felt thick.
I turned around and went straight upstairs.
My husband followed me, half-whispering, “I thought this would make you happy. I wanted to do something meaningful.”
I stared at him. “You invited a stranger into our house without even asking me. That’s not meaningful. That’s violating.”
He looked stunned. Hurt, even. But I didn’t care in that moment.
I stayed in our room for most of the morning. Around noon, I came down to find them both gone. A little envelope sat on the counter. “Call me if you want to talk – Clara.”
I didn’t call.
But I did Google her.
My mind kept drifting. I tried to stop thinking about her. But something was lodged in me now, and it wouldn’t go away.
That night, I asked my husband, “Why did she give me up?”
He paused. “She said you were from a relationship her parents didn’t approve of. She was 20. They made her go away, have you in secret. She never saw you again.”
“And now she wants what—tea? Hugs? Redemption?” I snapped.
He sighed. “She just wants to know you. That’s all she said.”
I didn’t sleep much that night. I kept flipping between anger and curiosity, resentment and guilt. By morning, I was drained.
So I called her.
Seeing her in broad daylight made her seem more real. More small, actually. She looked nervous. And older than I remembered from the morning.
I sat down. No hugs. No smiles. Just… started talking.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” I said. “But I’m here, so let’s just talk like two adults.”
Her shoulders relaxed a little. “That’s more than I expected.”
We talked for almost two hours.
She didn’t tell me a dramatic sob story. She just told the truth. Her parents had been strict. The father of the baby—me—was her college boyfriend, Isaac, who was Black. Her parents freaked. Sent her to a home in another state. Threatened to disown her. She gave birth, signed papers, and left with a hollow heart.
“And then I tried to move on,” she said. “But I never stopped thinking about you. Especially every year on your birthday.”
She pulled a little cloth bag out of her purse. Inside were a few folded letters.
“I wrote these over the years. Never mailed them, obviously. Just… wanted you to have them.”
I didn’t open them right away. Just nodded and put them in my bag.
We parted with a brief, awkward hug in the parking lot.
I didn’t know how to feel. Still didn’t, days later.
But I found myself reading the letters one night in bed. They were raw. Some were just updates. Others were tearful apologies. There was one where she imagined me with curly hair and braces, and asked if I liked horses. I cried reading that one.
After that, we started meeting for coffee. Quiet places. Neutral territory. I didn’t tell many people—not even my sisters.
And something strange happened. I started liking her.
She didn’t try too hard. Didn’t push. She had a dry, weird sense of humor. She called me out when I rambled. She listened.
We were up to meeting once a week when she got sick.
Pancreatic cancer. Stage four.
I visited her in the hospital. Brought her fuzzy socks and my husband’s banana bread. She smiled weakly and said, “Guess this whole thing’s been on a timer.”
I held her hand. “I’m glad we had time, though.”
She squeezed it. “Me too, baby girl.” Continue reading…
