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.

When I asked about the blanket, my mother said she had burned it. Said it wasn’t healthy for me to hold onto the past.

Then they sent me off to college… before I had even recovered.

No grave.
No answers.
No closure.

Eventually, I stopped asking.

I learned to carry my grief silently—so it wouldn’t disturb anyone else.

My mother passed away two years ago.