Later that morning, her daughter came to my apartment carrying a shoebox. Inside were hospital records sent to her by mistake—documents from the year I was born. They listed a baby named Caleb and a mother with the same name as the woman I’d found. There were also letters written to that child, never mailed. The coincidences were impossible to ignore.
There were no grand speeches when we reunited—only tears and quiet understanding. Dementia still shadows my mother’s days, but her grief eased once she finally knew her child was found. My life didn’t replace one family with another;
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