“I made too much coffee,” he said. “Want to come over?”

I should have said no.

I didn’t.

When I stepped into his house, everything stopped.

There, draped over a chair…

was the blanket.

Blue wool.
Yellow birds.

Mine.

The one I had been told was destroyed.

I pointed at it. “Where did you get that?”

He picked it up. “I’ve had it my whole life.”

Then he said, gently,
“I was adopted at three days old. My parents told me my birth mother left me with this… and a note.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“What note?” I asked.

He looked at me.

“‘Tell him he was loved.’”

That was the moment I knew.

Not suspected.

Knew.

My father appeared behind me.

“Claire… we need to go,” he said.

But it was too late.

The truth had already found its way out.

When I demanded answers, he finally broke.

“She arranged the adoption,” he said.

“Who?” I asked.

“Your mother.”

The room went silent.

“She told the clinic the baby had died,” he continued. “Not everyone. Just enough people. There was a lawyer. Papers. You were a minor… you never agreed to any of it.”