That night, I checked the bottom drawer of my dresser. The folder was still hidden beneath my winter sweaters. I unlocked it with the tiny key behind an old jewelry box.
Inside were Lucy’s adoption papers, one letter I had never given her, and a silver baby bracelet.
On the back was one word.
“Lulu.”
That was what Elijah and Agnes had called her before she became mine. They were Lucy’s biological parents.
I had always meant to tell Lucy when she was ready.
But by 15, I knew the truth was not about her readiness.
It was about my fear.
I was afraid she would want Elijah and Agnes. Afraid she would see me as a woman who had been handed a child, not as her mother.
I closed the folder.
“What’s that, Mom?”
I spun around.
Lucy stood in my bedroom doorway, eyes fixed on the locked drawer.
“Nothing,” I said too fast. “Just some old paperwork.”
“If it’s nothing, why did you jump?”
“You startled me.”
“You never locked that drawer before.”
“What’s that, Mom?”
I slipped the key into my palm. “I’m allowed to have private things.”
“So am I,” she said. “But when I hide something, you call it attitude.”
“What do you think I’m hiding, baby?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Her eyes moved past me to the drawer. “Is it about me?”
My throat tightened.
“Pack for your trip,” I said softly.
Her face shifted. “That’s an answer.”
She backed away. “I can pack myself.”
—
The next morning, Lucy got on the bus beside Zoe without looking back.
“Text me when you get there,” I said.
“I know.”
“I love you.”
