When I was 10, I got a birthday card from a woman named Nancy. I showed it to my parents, and they said it was cute. I never saw that card again.
20 years later, my father died, and I found that card in his closet. Suddenly, I realized there was a letter next to it written by Dad. It said, “Mom should never know.”
I opened it.
The handwriting was unmistakably his—curved and careful, like he’d really taken his time. Inside, the letter started like this:
“If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone, and maybe it’s time the truth comes out. Nancy is your biological mother.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
The closet door creaked closed slowly behind me. For a second, I thought maybe I misread it. But no—he repeated it.
“Your mom—Sohaila—raised you, loved you, protected you. She is your mother in every way that matters. But you were born from someone else.
Someone I loved before I even met Sohaila.”
My stomach dropped like I was on a rollercoaster. I skimmed the rest of the letter, almost afraid to read it all, but I couldn’t stop. He wrote about Nancy like she was some great lost love.
They were together in their twenties. She got pregnant, unexpectedly, and they weren’t ready. She wanted to keep me.
He didn’t. They fought. He left.
And then, a year later, he ran into Sohaila. That part I’d heard before. He always said he met Mom at a bookstore.
What he didn’t say was that she agreed to help him raise me—knowing full well I wasn’t hers. “She raised you like her own,” he wrote. “She never treated you any differently.
Please honor her for that.”
But the kicker was the end. “Nancy reached out once, for your tenth birthday. I didn’t want to open old wounds, so I tucked it away.
I’m sorry if that was wrong. I was trying to protect you. And Sohaila.”
I sat there for I don’t know how long.
Just rereading that line: Nancy is your biological mother. I couldn’t tell if I felt betrayed or just… hollow. The next week, after the funeral and the endless condolences, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I remembered the card, faintly. It had a squirrel wearing a party hat on it. I remembered laughing.
Nancy had written something about “double digits” and how proud she was. I had no idea what it meant at the time. Now I did.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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