“Mom, you have to read this.
Inside was a family photograph from 1968.
Robert, me and our two little children.
But on the back of the photograph, Robert had written something.
“Our third daughter is still alive. Margaret doesn’t know.”
I felt the world crumbling under my feet.
Because in 1968 I had been told that my newborn daughter had not survived.
For fifty-eight years I had thought she was dead.
And now, a message written with my late husband’s handwriting claimed that my daughter was still alive.
Daniel took my hand.
“Mom… I’ve found her.
I could barely whisper:
“Where is she?”
At that very moment the doorbell of our house sounded.
Daniel looked at me and whispered:
“He’s here.
I opened the door.
In front of me was a woman of fifty-eight years.