On the screen was a picture of a handwritten letter. Slanted, deliberate script; my name written at the top. It was from a man named John. I took the phone from Angela and zoomed in, my hands shaking.
In the letter, he identified himself as the twins’ biological father.
He had been deployed overseas while their mother was pregnant, and when he returned months later, he was told she had died during childbirth and that his daughters had been adopted by the midwife who delivered them.
He identified himself as the twins’ biological father.
He wrote that he was asking for a chance to meet his daughters. He had wanted his kids.
And for 20 years, all I ever told the girls was that they were adopted… never anything more.
“Where did you find this?” I asked.
“In the attic,” Angela replied flatly. “We were searching for old photo albums. We found an envelope addressed to you. We figured it might be something we should see.” She took the phone back. “Turns out we were right.”
“Angela… Nika…”
“Don’t,” Nika cut in. “Just don’t.”
He had wanted his kids.
The boxes continued to move. The truck kept filling up. And I stood there in the rain, struggling to find words for something I had buried 20 years earlier.
To understand why they were packing my life away, you have to go back two decades to the night I met their mother.
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