I helped Mrs. Marsh to the kitchen table and sat across from her while she opened the envelope with trembling fingers. A single page fell out, covered in careful blue ink. She read it silently. Her shoulders began to shake, and then she handed it to me and said, “Please. I cannot read it aloud. You must.” I swallowed and read the first lines in the quietest voice I own.

“Dear Mrs. Marsh,” it began. “My name is Claire. I was born on the ninth of March, nineteen seventy-six, at St. Margaret’s Hospital. I am eighteen now, and I think you might be my mother.” The kitchen went silent. Mrs. Marsh looked at me with wet eyes and whispered, “I never got it. I waited thirty years for that letter.” I looked down, and my hands began to shake.