I became a mother at seventeen—and my parents took my baby from me. Now, twenty-one years later, the man living next door looks exactly like the child I lost.

Except that.

So I wrote one sentence:
“Tell him he was loved.”

I handed her the note—along with a small blanket I had secretly made. Blue yarn, with yellow birds stitched into each corner. The only thing that felt like it belonged to both of us.

By the next day, everything was gone.