Chapter 2: The Box in the Closet
I couldn't sleep that night.
I lay in the dark staring at the ceiling, that woman's face burned into my mind.
The way her hands shook.
The way she said *son* like it cost her everything just to speak the word.
I snuck out of bed at 2 a.m.
and went looking.
My adoptive father keeps a locked box in the back of his closet.
He told me once it held old insurance papers.
I never questioned it.
That night I broke it open.
Inside was a folded document.
A birth certificate.
My name.
My birth date.
And under *Mother* — a name I had never heard in my life.
Beneath that was a letter.
Handwritten.
Dated eighteen years ago.
*"She believes the baby d\*ed during the transfer.
Do not contact her again.
This arrangement is final."*
My hands were shaking so hard the paper rattled.
I heard footsteps in the hallway.
My adoptive father pushed the door open and froze when he saw what I was holding.
His face went completely white.
"That is not what you think it is," he said quietly.
I looked up at him.
My voice came out steady.
Colder than I expected.
"Then whose signature is this?"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Looked away.
And then, from behind him, my adoptive mother appeared in the doorway — and the expression on her face told me she already knew I had found it.
😶
She didn't look guilty.
May you like
She looked *angry.*
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