I’ve never been impulsive; my world runs on planners and reminders.
But the letter resting in my pocket unraveled that carefully ordered version of me.
The following morning, after Gemma and Daphne left for school and Richie went to work, I called in sick. I slipped on my gardening gloves, picked up the shovel, and stepped out the back door.
Crossing into Mr. Whitmore’s yard, I felt like both an intruder and a child again.
My heartbeat pounded unevenly.
I walked toward the apple tree, its pale blossoms quivering in the cool morning air.
I pushed the shovel into the earth. The soil gave way more easily than I’d imagined.
Within minutes, the blade hit something solid—metal, muted and worn from decades beneath rain and roots.
I dropped to my knees, hands shaking, and pulled a box from the ground. It was rusted, heavy, older than anything I owned.
Brushing dirt away with numb fingers, I lifted the latch.
Inside, wrapped in yellowed tissue paper, was a small envelope with my name written across it. Beneath it lay a photograph of a man in his thirties holding a newborn beneath harsh hospital lighting.
Next to it rested a faded blue hospital bracelet, my birth name printed clearly in block letters.
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