I moved into Laura’s room, packed her things away—but never opened the boxes.
Not until one rainy morning, while searching for an old photo, I found a letter tucked away in the attic.
My name was written on the front. The date matched the day she vanished.
In it, Laura revealed everything—she was pregnant, scared, and felt completely alone.
She hadn’t told anyone. Not even Luke.
She said she couldn’t live a life rooted in a lie.
At the bottom, she left an address—just in case.
I read the letter over and over, its words soaked with sorrow and honesty.
That night, I gathered the family and read it aloud. When I finished, no one said a word.
Luke broke first. “She was pregnant?” he asked, tears in his voice.
Mama’s hand trembled over her heart. “Why would she think we wouldn’t love her still?”
But Laura had believed she was doing the right thing—running toward truth, not away from love.
I went to find her.
Down a quiet gravel road in Wisconsin, I arrived at a yellow house with chipped paint and sunflower beds.
A little girl sat drawing chalk hearts on the steps. “Is your mom home?” I asked, and she darted inside.
Moments later, Laura stepped onto the porch.
Older, softer, but still unmistakably my sister.
We embraced, ten years of silence breaking in a single breath.
Her daughter—Maddie—wasn’t Luke’s.
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