Chapter 8 - The Evidence of a Stolen Life
The cardboard box smelled of old paper, mothballs, and time. I flipped open the flaps, letting the dying light of dusk illuminate the contents.
It was a time capsule of a life that had been systematically erased from my home.
There were tiny blue hospital shirts with the name ROWAN stamped in faded ink. There were handmade birthday cards dated from his first year through his tenth, addressed To Mom in clumsy, changing handwriting that matured from crayon scribbles to neat adolescent cursive.
My knees buckled. I dropped down onto the cold concrete floor, pulling the cards into my lap as hot, silent tears finally broke free and streamed down my face.
He had survived. He had grown up just ten miles away, wondering why his mother never came for him, while I sat a few miles down the road mourning a ghost created by my own mother's greed.
I reached deeper into the box and pulled out a spiral-bound notebook. Opening it to the first page, I found a journal entry written in that same teenage handwriting, dated two years ago:
Grandma came to visit me at the foster home today. She told me to stay away from the Ulette family. She said my real mother didn't want me, that I was traded away because I was sickly and unwanted. But I saw the photo in her attic. I saw my twin brothers playing baseball in the park. I know who I am. And today, I found out the truth about why I was thrown away.
A sharp clatter echoed from the entrance of the storage unit.
I gasped, snapping my head up toward the open door.
The rolling steel door had dropped six inches, blocked by a heavy shadow falling across the threshold.
May you like
"Looking for memories, Nora?"
The voice was ice-cold, calm, and unmistakably familiar.
