“It’s okay.”
Then she looked at me.
“Maybe this needed to happen.”
Patricia nodded.
Then she reached into her pocket.
She pulled out an old envelope.
Its edges were soft from age.
The paper had yellowed.
She carefully handed it to me.
“This came from one of the Maplewood archive boxes investigators recently brought in for review.”
I stared at it.
“It was filed under your original name.”
My hands began trembling.
Patricia continued.
“It appears to have been placed there only days before your parents’ accident.”
I looked down.
Written across the front in faded blue ink were the words:
To be opened by Emma when she’s ready. I held the envelope without opening it.
Somewhere inside was a fragment of a life I had never known existed.
“You don’t have to read it now,” Mom said softly.
I looked at her.
“It waited thirty years. It can wait another day.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
I slipped my finger beneath the flap.
“If I put it down now, I might become too afraid to pick it up again.”
Inside was a single folded page.
The handwriting was slightly rushed but still easy to read.
I unfolded it.
My dearest Emma,
If you are reading this, then life did not turn out the way I hoped it would.
I wanted to be the person who told you how deeply you were loved from the very beginning.
But if these words reached you instead of my voice, then I was not able to tell you myself.
There is one thing I need you to know above everything else.
None of what happened was your fault.
You were the greatest joy of my life.
From the first moment I held you, I loved you more than I knew it was possible to love another person.
Every future I imagined included you.
If another family has raised you, I hope they loved you with everything they had.
And please never believe that being loved by someone else means you were loved any less by me.
Love does not disappear simply because life changes.
I hope you grew up kind.
I hope you laughed often.
