“Nancy… it’s me… your mother. I’ve been looking for you for 32 years.”
My heart raced.
The patient was crying, her hand still gripping my badge.
“Your father told me a car crash took you away,” she explained.
I thought the woman was confused.
I kept my voice as steady as I could. I told myself she was disoriented.
“You must be mistaken, Ma’am. My mother abandoned me.”
“You have her birthmark,” she claimed. “Right side of your collarbone. Small. Brown. Shaped almost like a comma.”
My hand automatically went to my collarbone. She was right. I did have a birthmark like the one she’d described.
But how did she know?
The woman watched me do it, tears in her eyes.
I did have a birthmark like the one she’d described.
“My father told me my mother left us,” I said. “That she wanted a different life. That she chose to go and never looked back. This can’t be real. You… you can’t be my mother.”
“I have never left you, sweetheart,” the woman cried. “I’ve been looking for you since the day your father disappeared with you. I’m your mother, Nancy. Trust me.”
I stood at the foot of that bed, with my badge still in her hand, and felt the floor do something strange beneath my feet.
“Open the bag,” she then said, nodding toward an old canvas bag near the window. “The folder inside. Please.”
“I’m your mother, Nancy. Trust me.”
The folder was worn at the edges.
I opened it.
The birth certificate was on top, her name beside mine, followed by the hospital, the date… everything matching what I knew about my own birth and my mother, Miranda.
Beneath it were letters. Dozens of them, maybe more.
I picked up the first one. The handwriting was careful and small, like she wanted to make every word count:
“Happy 3rd birthday, baby girl. Mommy still hasn’t found you, but I’m looking.”
Beneath it were letters.
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