“She came back this morning,” he said.
I waited until I was alone in my car to open it. Inside was a letter from the woman I’d helped. She thanked me for sparing her the shame of being short. Then came the shocker: she had been adopted and was searching for her roots. My name appeared beside hers in old records. Her biological mother’s name? Mary—my mother, who once confided she had given up a baby before me.
She explained she hadn’t planned to reveal this, but seeing my name tag and feeling my kindness convinced her to reach out. She asked for nothing—just wanted me to know she existed. She signed it: Hannah. My sister.
I called her immediately. We met the next day. Weeks later, a DNA test confirmed it. Today, she and her son visit often. We’re still learning what it means to be family—but it all started with a single night, a baby, and someone being six dollars short.
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