The envelope was yellow with age. My name was written across the front in handwriting I had never seen before.
Claire.
Not Evelyn’s handwriting.
Not Thomas’s.
Margaret’s.
I opened it carefully.
My little girl,
If you are reading this one day, it means you have grown old enough to ask questions about the woman who gave birth to you.
I wish I could be there to answer them myself.
I don’t know what your eyes will look like or whether you will have my smile. I don’t know what your favorite song will be or whether you will love the rain as much as I do.
But I already love you more than I knew it was possible to love another human being.
My vision blurred.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
Mom continued speaking quietly.
“Your father wasn’t there for the birth. Margaret had stopped expecting anything from him by then. Thomas and I were with her at the hospital.”
