I’ve never been chaotic; my life runs on lists and calendars.
But the letter tucked in my pocket made a liar out of that version of me.
The next morning, after Gemma and Daphne left for school and Richie headed to work, I called in sick. I pulled on my gardening gloves, grabbed the shovel, and stepped through the back door.
Walking into Mr. Whitmore’s yard, I felt both like a trespasser and a little girl.
My pulse thudded unevenly in my chest.
I made my way to the apple tree, its pale blossoms trembling in the early breeze.
I drove the shovel into the soil. It yielded more easily than I’d expected.
Within minutes, the blade struck something solid—metallic and dull beneath years of rain and roots.
I dropped to my knees, hands trembling, and unearthed a box. It was rusted, weighty, older than anything I owned.
Brushing off the dirt with numb fingers, I lifted the latch.
Inside, wrapped in yellowed tissue, was a small envelope bearing my name. Beneath it lay a photograph of a man in his thirties cradling a newborn under the harsh glow of hospital lights.
A faded blue hospital bracelet rested beside it, my birth name printed clearly in block letters.
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