Our house sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, the kind of street where porch lights stayed on late, and neighbors waved without really looking. For 17 years, my whole world had been my son Caleb and the small, steady rhythm we’d built together after his dad moved out.
I’d learned to find joy in small things because the bigger questions, like the one about who my birth mother was, never had answers anyway. I was adopted as a baby.
My whole world had been my son Caleb.
The only thing that came with me was a thin silver locket my adoptive parents kept safe until I was old enough to wear it.
On Caleb’s 15th birthday, I clasped it around his neck.
“It’s been with me since before I had a name,” I told him. “Now it’s yours.”