Inside were adoption papers.
A photograph of her biological parents.
A letter written by her birth mother.
And a tiny hospital bracelet with the name “Mara” written across it.
Mallory’s first name.
The name she had been given before she became my daughter.
I always told myself I would explain everything once she was older.
At twelve, she still seemed too young.
At thirteen, she was struggling with her father’s death.
At fourteen, she had finally seemed happy again.
There was always another reason to wait.
The truth was uglier.
I was afraid.
Afraid she would find her biological parents and love them.
Afraid she would see me differently.
Afraid that after losing my husband, I could somehow lose her too.
Two weeks after Mallory disappeared, I opened that box.
The adoption papers were missing.
The photograph was gone too.
And so was the letter. Only the empty hospital bracelet remained. I sat on the closet floor for nearly an hour.
