Never get too comfortable.
You might have to leave.
I used to lie awake at night wondering about my biological mother.
Sometimes I imagined she was beautiful.
Sometimes I imagined she was cruel.
Sometimes I imagined she regretted giving me away.
Other nights, I imagined she had forgotten me entirely.
That possibility hurt the most.
So eventually, I stopped wondering.
I built my own life.
I married my husband.
We had five children.
And I made myself a promise.
My children would never wonder whether they belonged.
They would never have to guess whether someone was coming back.
They would always know where home was.
Then Walter moved next door.
The first time I saw him, he was standing beside his moving truck.
He looked old.
Not weak.
Just old.
He had the posture of someone whose body had survived more years than it wanted to admit.
He smiled at the children.
My youngest immediately ran toward him.
“Are you our new neighbor?”
Walter laughed.
“I suppose I am.”
“Do you have a dog?”
“No.”
“Do you have candy?”
Walter looked at me.
I laughed.
“Don’t encourage him.”
Walter smiled.
“I’ll remember that.”
He didn’t have grandchildren nearby.
His wife, Margaret, had died a few months earlier.
