I’ve worn the same silver medallion since I can remember.
It was around my neck when I took my first steps. Still there when I learned to ride a bike. Even stayed with me during my wedding — tucked under my dress like a secret I never knew I was keeping.
My adoptive parents always told me it was mine. That it had been with me since the day they found me — wrapped in a blanket, barely six months old.
But they never told me where it came from.
Until the night before my mom passed away.
She reached into her bedside drawer and handed me an envelope.
“You deserve to know everything,” she whispered.
“Even if it changes how you see us.”
Inside was a short note — written in trembling handwriting.
“Please keep this safe for her.”
“It’s all I have to give.”
“Tell her I didn’t leave because I didn’t love her.”
Signed by someone I had never met.
“Her real mother.”
That’s when the truth hit me.
The medallion wasn’t just jewelry.
It was proof of a goodbye she never got to say in person.
And now, I carry both — the chain around my neck…
And the weight of knowing she gave me up not out of hate — but of heartbreak.
Because sometimes, love doesn’t end at birth.
Sometimes, it waits for decades to finally reach you — even after your whole life has already been written.