After my mother passed, I walked into our old house, and the silence hit me like a wave. The rooms felt empty, as if waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back.
I whispered to myself, “Just start,” but my legs wouldn’t move.
The air carried the faint scent of her cinnamon rolls. Her presence seemed to linger in the stillness, but everything was quiet now.
I forced myself to the living room, where boxes were stacked. My fingers brushed over the first one, and I sighed.
“It’s just stuff,” I muttered, though every item pulled at me—the chipped coffee mug, the scarf I’d borrowed. Then, I saw it: a pendant, its emerald gleaming beneath a stack of old letters.
“I’ve never seen this before,” I whispered. “Where did this come from?”
At the fair, I sat behind my table, surrounded by my mother’s things. An older man approached, his gaze drawn to the pendant. He seemed moved by it and shared that he had once given a pendant like it to a woman named Martha—a summer romance from decades ago. My heart stopped—Martha was my mother’s name.
I couldn’t help myself. I asked, “Do you want to keep it?”
After some hesitation, he agreed, giving me his address. I discreetly pocketed a strand of his silver hair.
Days later, the DNA test confirmed it: Jackson was my father.
When I confronted him, he didn’t believe me. But his daughter, Julia, encouraged me to return. The next day, he apologized. He revealed that my mother had ended their relationship because she was pregnant and feared he would never follow his dreams. He’d always regretted it.
Jackson and I sat together, sharing the truth my mother never told me. With Julia’s support, Jackson offered to be a part of my life. That evening, for the first time, I felt a sense of family.
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