My husband followed me, half-whispering, “I thought this would make you happy. I wanted to do something meaningful.”

I stared at him. “You invited a stranger into our house without even asking me. That’s not meaningful. That’s violating.”

He looked stunned. Hurt, even. But I didn’t care in that moment.

I stayed in our room for most of the morning. Around noon, I came down to find them both gone. A little envelope sat on the counter. “Call me if you want to talk – Clara.”

I didn’t call.

But I did Google her.

Turns out, she’d lived only an hour away my whole life. No criminal record. Worked as a nurse until five years ago. Married once. Widowed. No other kids.

My mind kept drifting. I tried to stop thinking about her. But something was lodged in me now, and it wouldn’t go away.

That night, I asked my husband, “Why did she give me up?”

He paused. “She said you were from a relationship her parents didn’t approve of. She was 20. They made her go away, have you in secret. She never saw you again.”

“And now she wants what—tea? Hugs? Redemption?” I snapped.

He sighed. “She just wants to know you. That’s all she said.”

I didn’t sleep much that night. I kept flipping between anger and curiosity, resentment and guilt. By morning, I was drained.

So I called her.

We met at a diner halfway between our houses. She was already sitting there, clutching a napkin in her lap.

Seeing her in broad daylight made her seem more real. More small, actually. She looked nervous. And older than I remembered from the morning.

I sat down. No hugs. No smiles. Just… started talking.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” I said. “But I’m here, so let’s just talk like two adults.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little. “That’s more than I expected.”

We talked for almost two hours.

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