“With a man we didn’t trust,” he said quietly. “She was pregnant. We argued. She refused our help. Months later, we were told she had died. But there was no record of the child.”
My throat went dry.
“Me,” I whispered.
He nodded.
“We searched everywhere. Hospitals. Shelters. Adoption records. We hired investigators. For years, there was nothing. So I did the only thing I could—I asked every antique dealer, every pawn shop, to watch for that necklace.”
“And you just… waited?” I asked.
“For twenty years.”
The weight of his words settled over me like gravity.
My whole life—every struggle, every unanswered question—suddenly felt like pieces of a story I had never been told.
Charles reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph.
He placed it gently on the counter.
A young woman smiled back at me.
Dark hair. Soft eyes.
Wearing the necklace.
She looked like me.
Or maybe I looked like her.
“That’s my mother?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s Merinda.”
