Ruth went to prom without me. She packed a bag. She left.
Weeks passed. Then months.
I wrote letters she didn’t answer. I sent messages she didn’t read. I learned how to breathe through a new kind of grief—the loss of a child who was still alive.
Then one evening, my phone rang.
“Mom?” Ruth’s voice was small.
She had found the adoption file by accident while helping a counselor with paperwork. Inside was a letter I had written years ago, sealed and forgotten.
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