“Can we go to Mr. Whitmore’s yard after school?” she asked. “I want to get more leaves to paint.”
Richie and I exchanged a look.
“Maybe later,” I said. “Let’s just get through the day first.”
The rest of the day dragged on endlessly.
I tied shoelaces, braided hair, wiped jam from sticky cheeks, and reread the letter so many times my thumb smudged the ink. Each time I folded it closed, my stomach twisted tighter.
That evening, while the girls watched television and Richie stirred spaghetti at the stove, I stood by the window, studying the apple tree’s gnarled branches.
He slipped up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “If you want, Tanya, I’ll be there. You don’t have to face this alone.”
I leaned back against his chest.
“I just need answers, Rich. He was always so kind. Every Christmas he’d leave an envelope of cash so we could spoil the girls with candy.”
“Then we’ll figure out what he left you. Together, if that’s what you want.”
My husband kissed the top of my head before returning to serve the girls’ dinner.
I felt a little more grounded.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. I paced the house in restless loops, stopping at the back window. My reflection stared back at me—brown hair pulled into a thinning ponytail, tired eyes, pajama pants sagging at the knees.
I didn’t look like someone prepared to unearth buried truths.
I remembered something my mother used to say:
“You can’t hide what you are, Tanya. Eventually, everything finds its way to the surface.”
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.
My vision narrowed.
I sank down into the dirt, gripping the photograph.
“No… no. That’s not… that’s me?!”
With shaking hands, I grabbed the letter and tore it open.
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