“I love you,” she said.
“I know, Mom,” I said. “I’ve always known that.”
Dr. Reeves gave us 20 minutes before he came back in, which I thought was generous and which I suspected was intentional.
When he returned, he brought with him a woman named Agent Carla from the federal investigation unit that had been working the Maplewood House case.
Agent Morris was direct and efficient.
She explained that the investigation had identified dozens of children whose adoption records had been altered by corrupt administrators at Maplewood House.
In many cases, the paperwork had been changed without the adoptive families’ knowledge to hide the children’s original identities and make the records harder to trace.
“Your adoption was not among the compromised cases, Emma,” she said, looking at me. “Helen’s records were complete and legal. The process was documented correctly. You have nothing to fear about the validity of your adoption.”
“Then what do you need from us?” I asked.
“Helen,” Agent Morris said, turning to my mother, “did you keep any documentation from your time at Maplewood House? Records, photographs, or files from the program?”
My mother was quiet for a moment.
“Yes,” she nodded. “I kept everything. I always thought—” She paused. “I always thought that someday someone might need it. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.”
“Those records,” Agent Morris said, “may be exactly what we’ve been missing. We have spent eight months trying to piece together the identities of children from that period. If your files are complete, they could allow us to reconnect dozens of people with their original histories.”
“Tell me what you need,” my mother said. “I’ll give you everything.”
Before Agent Morris left the room, Patricia came back in.
She had been waiting in the hallway, and she looked at my mother with an apologetic expression.
“I’m sorry for the alarm,” she said to my mother. “I know this wasn’t what you came in for.”
“It’s all right,” my mother smiled. “I think it needed to happen.”
Patricia nodded.
Then, she reached into her coat pocket and produced a small envelope, slightly worn at the edges, which she handed to me with a care that told me it was old and had been kept carefully.
“This was in the archive box from Maplewood House that the investigators brought in last week,” she said. “They asked hospital staff to look through it for anything identifiable. When I saw the tattoo, I remembered this.” She looked at the envelope in my hands. “It was filed under your original name. The investigators said it was placed in the files only days before the accident.”
Written across the front of the envelope, in handwriting I didn’t recognize, were the words, “To be opened by Emma when she’s ready.”
I held it for a long moment without opening it.
“You don’t have to read it now,” my mother said.
“I know,” I said. “I’m going to, though.”
Inside was a single page, written in a hand that was rushed but legible.
“My dearest Emma,
If you’re reading this, then life did not unfold the way I prayed it would. I hoped I would be the one to tell you how deeply you were loved from the very beginning, but if these words have reached you instead, then I am no longer there to do it myself.
I need you to know one thing above all else: none of this was ever your fault.
You were the greatest joy of my life.
From the moment I held you, I loved you more than I knew a heart could love another person. Every dream I had for the future included you.
If someone else raised you, I hope they loved you with everything they had. Please never think that being loved by another family means you were loved any less by me. Love doesn’t disappear because life changes. It simply finds another way to reach the people who need it.
I hope you grew up kind. I hope you laughed often. I hope you found people who made you feel safe, and I hope you always knew you deserved every bit of that love.
Most of all, I hope you never doubted that you were wanted.
If the people who raised you loved you well, hold on to them. They are your family. Nothing in this letter is meant to take that away from you. If anything, I hope it reminds you how fortunate you are to have been loved twice.
I wish I could have watched you grow up.
I wish I could have told you all of this myself.
With all the love a mother can give,
Your first mom, Alicia”
Alicia. That was my birth mother’s name.
I read it several times.
Then I looked at my mother, who had been watching me with her hands folded and her eyes very still.
“She seems like she was a good person,” I said.
“I’m sure she was,” my mother replied softly.
“I’d like to find out more about her.” I took a slow breath. “When I’m ready.”
She nodded. “Of course. I’ll help you. Whatever you need.”
