That small act reassured me that I still belonged.
When my brother came along two years after that, I was the one holding the bottle while Meredith finally got a chance to shower.
By the time I hit 20, I thought I had my life story figured out. It was a bit tragic, sure, but the facts were clear.
One mother died giving me life. One father had until a random accident took him away. One stepmother stepped up and became the anchor I needed. Simple.
But that nagging curiosity never really went away.
I thought I had my life story figured out.
I kept looking in the mirror, wondering where I belonged.
"Do I look like him?" I asked Meredith one night while she was doing dishes.
She nodded. "You have his eyes."
"What about her?"
Meredith dried her hands slowly. "You get your dimples from her, and your beautiful curly hair."
There was something in her voice... a carefulness. It felt like she was walking on eggshells, and I couldn't figure out why.
I kept looking in the mirror, wondering where I belonged.
That feeling followed me all the way to the attic that evening. I was looking for an old photo album with pictures of my parents.
When I was a kid, it sat on the living room shelf. But every time I touched it, Meredith would get this look on her face, like she was bracing for something.
Eventually, the album vanished. She told me she'd stored it away so the photos wouldn't fade.
I found the album in a dusty box.
I was looking for an old photo album with pictures of my parents.
I sat cross-legged on the floor and flipped through pictures of my dad when he was younger. He looked so happy.
In one photo, he was holding a woman — my biological mother.
"Hi," I whispered. I felt a little silly talking to a piece of paper, but mostly, it felt right.
I turned another page and stopped.
There was a photo of Dad standing outside the hospital. He was holding a tiny bundle wrapped in a pale blanket. Me.
I turned another page and stopped.
He looked absolutely terrified and incredibly proud all at once.
I wanted that photo.
I carefully slid it out of the plastic sleeve. As I pulled it free, something else slipped out from behind it. It was a thin piece of paper, folded twice.
My name was written on the front in Dad's handwriting.
My hands started shaking as I unfolded the paper.
It was a thin piece of paper, folded twice.
It was a letter, dated the day before he died.
I read it… Tears ran down my cheeks.
I read it again, and my heart didn't simply break; it shattered.
Dad's accident had happened in the late afternoon. I'd always been told he was just driving home from work. A normal commute. A random event.
But he wasn't just "driving home."
It was a letter, dated the day before he died.
"No," I whispered. My voice sounded hollow. "No, no, no."
I folded the letter and walked downstairs.
I found Meredith in the kitchen, helping my brother with homework. Her soft smile dropped when she saw my face.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice sharp with worry.
I held out the letter. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Her eyes dropped to the paper. The color drained out of her cheeks.
I folded the letter and walked downstairs.
"Where did you find that?" she whispered.
"In the photo album. Where you hid it."
She closed her eyes for a moment. She looked like she had been bracing for this exact second for 14 years.
"Go finish your math upstairs, honey," Meredith told my brother. "I'll be up in a minute."
He gathered his books and headed up.
Once he was gone, I cleared my throat and started reading the letter aloud.
"Where did you find that?"
