Her face went pale.
“Simone?”
That single word hurt more than all the documents in the bag.
She recognized me immediately.
Her husband turned toward her.
“You know her, Sally?”
My mother’s lips parted.
“It’s complicated.”
“It wasn’t complicated when I was three,” I said. “You left.”
Every conversation around us stopped.
She moved toward me.
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
“I agree. I should have been brought here years ago.”
Her husband looked from her to me.
“Who is she?”
Mom closed her eyes.
“My daughter.”
The silence that followed felt endless.
Her son stared at her.
“You told us you never had children before us.”
“I can explain.”
I lifted the plastic bag.
“Dad already did.”
Her eyes locked onto it.
“What did he tell you?”
“The truth.”
“He never told the entire truth.”
“You sent cards.”
“I tried to stay connected.”
“You wrote to Dad. You spoke about me as if I belonged to someone else.”
