On my eighteenth birthday, my life was quietly turned upside down—not by a dramatic revelation, but by a simple package. It was from Laurie, my birth mother, a woman who had left me and my dad, Ralph, when I was just a baby. To me, she was a stranger.
My parents were both eighteen when I was born. Laurie, from a wealthy background, left us to pursue her dreams of becoming a writer. She saw our small-town life—and us—as something that would hold her back. Raised solely by my dad and supported by his parents, we struggled, but he never let me feel it. My maternal grandparents occasionally sent money, but we were never truly part of their world.
Years later, Laurie showed up unannounced, begging for forgiveness and wanting to reconnect. My father refused, and I, unsure of my emotions, stood by him. Laurie kept trying—calls, letters, voicemails—all of which we ignored. Then came the final package. A week later, she passed away.
My father told me the news with a heavy heart and handed me the parcel. Inside was a novel—a story about a girl under the stars—and a letter. It was my story, written by Laurie, her way of explaining her past, her regrets, and why she left.
She wrote of being young and pressured by her wealthy parents into a life she didn’t choose. Forced to marry someone else, she eventually found her voice as a writer. The book was her apology and her legacy. Along with it were legal documents transferring all rights and royalties to me.
Through her words, I began to understand the pain behind her decisions. Though she was gone, the book became a bridge between us—a chance to forgive and to heal. Her story became a bestseller, offering me not only financial stability but also a connection to the mother I never really knew.
Her final words to me:
“This is from my heart to yours. I always have and always will love you.”
Leave a Reply