The question hung between us, heavy and unavoidable.
She looked down at her hands.
“I was young,” she said. “And scared. I had no support, no way to take care of you. I thought…” She hesitated. “I thought if I left you somewhere safe, someone would find you. Someone better than me.”
I thought of the rain, the empty street, the thin blanket.
“That wasn’t safe,” I said.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
“I know,” she said. “I know that now. I’ve thought about it every day since.”
I didn’t know what I felt.
Anger, yes. But also something else—something more complicated, more difficult to hold.
I looked at my father again.
He met my gaze, his eyes steady.
“You don’t owe anyone anything,” he said quietly.
I nodded.
Then I turned back to her.
“I’m okay,” I said. “More than okay.”
She nodded, her expression a mixture of relief and sorrow.
“I can see that,” she said, glancing briefly at my father. “You had someone who cared for you.”
“Not just someone,” I said. “Everything.”
My father shifted slightly, as though uncomfortable with the attention, but he didn’t look away.
“I’m not here to take anything from you,” she said quickly. “I just… I needed to tell you that I’m sorry. And that I never stopped thinking about you.”
Her words settled over me, not quite soothing, but not entirely unwelcome either.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” I admitted.
“You don’t have to do anything,” she said. “I just wanted you to hear it.”
We stood there for a long moment, the three of us bound together by a history that was both shared and separate.
Finally, I spoke.
“Do you want to know my name?” I asked.
Her eyes widened slightly.
“Yes,” she said.
I told her.
She repeated it softly, as if committing it to memory.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“My dad chose it,” I replied.
