Grief… and a Strange Kind of Wholeness
I sat down hard on Hannah’s couch, clutching that paper like it was fragile truth.
I cried for a sister I never got to meet.
For years we could have had.
For the stolen time.
But underneath the grief was something else.
Relief that Hannah finally had her answer.
Gratitude that life — in its unfairness — still gave me a piece of my sister to hold onto.
Hannah sat beside me and rested her head on my shoulder.
“I spent so long looking for my mother,” she whispered. “And I never found her.”
I swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry.”
