She held me tightly.
“You are my son, Daniel. Nothing Eleanor wrote can change that.”
I wrapped my arms around her.
“I know, Mom.”
But the truth was more complicated than that.
I had two mothers now in my heart: one who had raised me, and one who had given me life.
Neither love erased the other.
Later that evening, I drove to Eleanor’s house.
It was a modest old home on a quiet street, with climbing roses beside the front door and a small garden she had apparently tended until she became too ill.
Mr. Reed had left the key with the caretaker.
I found a wooden box in the bottom drawer of Eleanor’s bedroom.
The key fitted the lock.
Inside were photographs, letters, a few pieces of jewelry, and a small notebook.
The first photograph showed Eleanor and my father standing outside the hospital where they had met.
