Ever since I was a kid, I was told never to touch it.
“Old paperwork,” he’d say. “Boring adult stuff.”
When he passed away two months ago, we were devastated.
He was the quiet, steady heart of our family.
As we were sorting through his things, I found the key.
It was taped underneath his desk.
I hesitated for a moment before unlocking the drawer.
Inside… wasn’t paperwork.
There was a small, neatly folded baby blanket. A weathered photograph of a newborn. And a letter. Addressed to “The child I never got to meet.”
My hands were shaking as I read it.
He wrote about a girl he loved before meeting my mom. How they were young, reckless, and how she left without a word—pregnant, scared, and determined to raise the baby on her own.
He spent years searching, but never found them.
The letter ended with:
“If you ever find this… I want you to know I thought about you every day. You were always part of me.”
I sat there in shock.
My father—the man who never raised his voice, who came to every school play, who taught me how to ride a bike—had carried this secret his entire life.
I posted the photo and letter in a local group, not expecting much.
Two weeks later, I got a message.
“I think that baby was my mom.”
