Ten years of silence.
Ten years of doubt.
So when I saw that dead yellow rose on my doorstep, my body recognized it before my mind could accept it.
Tied around the stem was a note.
It read: “I had to make you hate me.”
Inside the small box was a tiny hospital bracelet—pink and white. It had a baby girl’s name on it.
My name.
My exact name.
Then I found another folded note, written in Stephen’s handwriting.
“You were the first home I ever had. I named my daughter after you. I know I do not deserve that word, but she should know the woman who raised me.”
Beneath the bracelet was a brass key.
And under that—a deed.
A cottage by the sea, two hours from my town. Paid in full. In my name.
He explained everything in the letter.
After his father died, his biological mother found him. She came with tears and stories. She said she had been kept away. Said I had destroyed their family. Said his father had wanted her back—and that I had manipulated everything.
