So when the doctors finally told me how little time I had left, I decided to spend it looking.
I used some of the insurance paperwork money to hire a man who knew how to read old sealed foster records.
I asked him to find the girl who folded the paper cranes. It was the only real memory I had.
Rachel — he found her.
Her name is Grace.
She is my sister.
My actual, blood sister. We were placed into the system together as babies and separated when I was six years old. She has been searching for me for almost forty years, the exact same way I was searching for her, both of us reaching into the dark for the other and missing by inches, year after year.
The woman who has been visiting me is not a stranger. She is not what you might be afraid of.
She is the family I always told you I didn’t have.
