Maggie thought she knew everything about her life—her family, her childhood, the neighborhood she grew up in. But one morning, that all changed.
A phone call from her neighbor Rebecca, who had always been like a second mother to Maggie, sent her running next door. There, Rebecca was frail and weak, yet her eyes held a deep urgency. She whispered, “Open the drawer… take the wooden box.”
Inside, Maggie found a photograph of a young, pregnant Rebecca and a tiny hospital bracelet with her own name on it. Confusion swirled as Rebecca explained, “I gave you up out of love, so your parents could raise you. I never stopped loving you.”
Rebecca had always been there for her—baking cookies, attending school events, and quietly loving her from a distance. As Maggie read a letter Rebecca had written, everything fell into place.
“I was afraid you’d hate me,” Rebecca said. “But you were always loved.”
Before Maggie could fully process the truth, Rebecca passed away, leaving behind letters chronicling Maggie’s life from Rebecca’s perspective.
Maggie now keeps the wooden box close, a reminder of the mother who gave her up but never stopped loving her. Every night, she traces the photo and whispers, “Thank you for loving me enough to stay.”