But I also felt betrayed.
Love did not erase the fact that they had made a decision about my identity without giving me a choice.
Eventually, I told them that I needed time.
They accepted it.
I began visiting Margaret’s grave every Sunday.
I brought flowers and read her letters beneath the trees. I learned that she had loved old movies, lemon cake, and the sound of church bells on quiet mornings.
Piece by piece, she stopped being a photograph and became a person.
Three months later, Thomas called me into the living room.
“I have something else to tell you,” he said.
My heart tightened.
“Is there another secret?”
He looked ashamed.
“Yes. One I should have told you from the beginning.”
He handed me a sealed envelope.
Inside was a document from the hospital, along with a letter written by Margaret shortly before her death.
I unfolded the letter.
