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:
“She’s here.”
I opened the door.
Standing in front of me was a fifty-eight-year-old woman.
She had my eyes.
The same shape of nose.
And the moment she saw me, she began to cry.
