The Postcard With Three Words
I kept digging through the box.
There were copies of police reports.
Letters to hospitals and adoption agencies.
Dead ends stacked on dead ends.
Then, at the bottom, I found a faded postcard.
No return address.
Just three words in unfamiliar handwriting:
“I’m doing okay.”
No signature.
No date.
But deep in my gut, I knew.
That was her.
My twin.
Reaching out once — just once — to let my parents know she survived.
And suddenly the Facebook post made horrifying sense.
Hannah wasn’t looking for me.
She was looking for my twin.
Which meant Hannah wasn’t my daughter.
She was my niece.
My blood.
The only family I had left in the world.
I grabbed my phone with trembling fingers and opened Hannah’s profile again.
I typed and deleted the message three times.
Finally, I wrote:
“I might know something about your family. Can we talk?”
I hit send before fear could stop me.
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