“I think someday I want to learn more about her.”
“Of course.”
“Not today.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“I want to know where I came from.”
Mom nodded immediately.
“And I’ll help you.”
I carefully folded Alicia’s letter and returned it to the envelope.
For the first time in my life, I understood that family could mean more than one thing.
Blood.
Choice.
Memory.
People who leave.
People who stay.
Alicia had loved me during my first two years.
Helen had loved me through every year after.
I didn’t need to choose which love was real.
Both were.
And somehow, the tiny tattoo my mother had spent thirty years hiding was about to help far more people than just me.
Her attic contained records that might finally give other former Maplewood children answers about their own lives.
Names.
Birthdays.
Relatives.
Histories that had been hidden from them.
