He knew she had a daughter somewhere.
And when they eventually married, she told him that she still dreamed of finding her child.
A few years later, I was born.
My mother loved me, but she never stopped thinking about Emily.
My father reached into a drawer and pulled out an old envelope.
Inside were several photographs and letters.
“Your mother kept these for years,” he said.
He handed one of the letters to Emily.
The handwriting was delicate and familiar.
Emily unfolded it with trembling fingers.
The first line read:
“My darling little girl, if you ever read this, please understand that giving you away was never the same as not loving you.”
Emily pressed the paper against her chest.
My father continued.
“Your mother used to write letters to you. She never knew whether you would ever receive them. Sometimes she would sit at the kitchen table for hours, writing about what she hoped your life would become.”