“Did my parents love me?”
I told her, “I believe they did.”
Last Saturday morning, I was making pancakes.
David—now 20—was stealing bacon off the plate.
Adelina—18, just weeks away from graduation—was slicing strawberries and pretending she wasn’t stealing those too.
Then someone knocked at the door.
I opened it.
A woman stood there.
Late thirties, maybe. Her face looked worn, her eyes full of tears. Her hands were clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
She said:
“I know you don’t know me. But I’m Adelina’s mother. Thank you for raising my daughter.”
I stared at her.
“That’s impossible.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Her parents died in that crash.”
“That’s what I was told too.”
I stepped outside and pulled the door almost shut behind me.
“What are you talking about?”
“Please let me explain.”
“No. Prove who you are first.”
