I never meant to return to that town. But after Dad died — and Mom long before him — it was the only place that still felt mine.
While unpacking, a courier arrived with a small box. No sender. Just: “Do not open until August 5th.”
My paperwork said my birthday was the 6th. But I’d always known it was the 5th.
The next night, I opened it. Inside — a pendant I half-remembered, and a note:
“I missed you all these years. — Mom.”
Then came a knock.
A woman stood there. “Cindy… it’s me. Your mother.”
I let her in, though something felt wrong. The way she scanned the house, the bakery papers — like she was hunting for something.
Days later, she brought adoption forms. I smiled and asked her to visit one place first.
At the cemetery, she froze at a small headstone.
“She was your sister,” I said quietly. “My real mother.”
Her mask cracked.
“My lawyer found her will,” I added. “She left everything to you — on one condition.”
