She pulled an envelope from her purse.
“My aunt died this winter. She worked admitting for a few months at that hospital after the crash. I found a letter in her things. She wrote that she had overheard staff talking about a surviving girl from the wreck who had been placed with the paramedic who brought her in.”
She swallowed.
“She wasn’t fully sure. She never sent it because she didn’t have proof and was afraid of losing her job. But she wrote your first name and enough details for me to find you.”
Before I could respond, the front door opened wider.
Adelina stood there.
David right behind her.
Adelina looked pale—but steady.
She asked, “Who are you?”
The woman began to cry.
“I’m your biological mother.”
I turned to Adelina. “You do not have to deal with this right now.”
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then said:
“No. We’re doing it now.”
We all went into the kitchen.
David sat beside her.
I sat on her other side.
The woman sat across from us, hands folded tightly in her lap, like she was afraid to touch anything.
Adelina said, “Tell me everything.”
So she did.
She spoke about getting pregnant young.
About Adelina’s father—gentle and funny.
About his sister helping care for the baby.
About the fever that kept her home that night.
