The next day, he found me at my locker.
“The apartment’s empty,” he said. “Nobody lives there.”
For years, I couldn’t understand how someone who had tucked me into bed one night could disappear the next morning without even saying goodbye.
Whenever I asked Dad about her, he gave me the same answer.
“Some people aren’t who you think they are. Stop wasting your time on someone who doesn’t want to be part of your life.”
Eventually, I stopped asking.
I grew up.
I went to college, moved away, found a job, and built a life of my own.
More than a decade passed.
Anna became a painful subject I’d learned not to touch.
Until she appeared on my porch.
The document inside the envelope was my birth certificate.
My name.
My birthday.
The hospital where I’d been born.
Under “Father,” it listed Richard.
My father.
Then I saw the line marked “Mother.”
It didn’t say Laura.
It said Anna.
I read it again.
And again.
“This can’t be real.”
“It is,” Anna whispered.
“But my mother’s name was Laura.”
She shook her head.
“There was never a Laura.”
I let out a strange laugh.
