She ended the letter gently, saying she didn’t expect anything from me, only wanted me to know she existed. She signed it: Hannah. My sister.
I dialed the number she’d written at the bottom before I could talk myself out of it. When she answered, hesitant and hopeful, we agreed to meet the next day at a small café near the store. Seeing her walk in—same tired eyes, same baby nestled close—felt like watching a mirror I didn’t know existed.
Our first hug was awkward but real. We talked for hours, trading memories and questions about the mother we’d shared in different ways. A few weeks later, a DNA test confirmed what our hearts already believed: we were sisters.
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