I told myself I was imagining it. People see what they want to see.

But then he smiled and came closer.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Miles. It looks like we’re neighbors.”

We exchanged a few normal words, but I barely heard any of them.

I started trembling inside again.

My father was in the kitchen.

At first he didn’t react. Then he did.

Too fast.

Too abruptly.

And at that moment… something didn’t feel right.

Two days later, I found out why.

I had already gone next door. She recognized the surname on a package, the same name as the couple who had adopted my son.

He had not forgotten.

He had just buried it.

Three days after the truck arrived, Miles knocked on my door.

“I made too much coffee,” she said. “Do you want to come?”

I should have said no.

I didn’t do it.

When I entered his house, everything stopped.

There, covered on a chair…

It was the blanket.

Blue wool.
Yellow birds.

Mine.

The one I had been told about was destroyed.

I pointed at it. “Where did you get that?”

He picked it up. “I’ve had it all my life.”

Then she said softly,
“I was adopted when I was three days old. My parents told me that my birth mother left me with this… and a note.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“What grade?” I asked.

He looked at me.

“Tell him he was loved.”

That was the moment I knew.

There is no suspicion.

I knew it.

My father appeared behind me.

“Claire… we have to go,” he said.

But it was too late.

The truth had already found its way out.

When I demanded answers, it finally broke down.

“She arranged the adoption,” he said.

 

See continues on the next page