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After a week of searching through community pages, obituaries, and social media groups, I found her: Anna Collins, late thirties, living just across town.
When I arrived at her address, I almost turned back. The house looked forgotten — paint peeling, windows shuttered, the yard overgrown. But when the door opened, I saw her. Pale, thin, eyes hollow with years of sorrow.
She hesitated. “Who’s asking?”
I held out the letter. “I found this — inside a pair of baby shoes.”
Her breath caught. She took the paper in shaking hands and sank against the doorframe. “I wrote this when I thought I couldn’t keep living,” she whispered.
Without thinking, I reached for her hand. “But you did. You’re still here. And that matters.”
Two Mothers, One Healing
Anna began to cry — the kind of crying that empties years of silence. I held her as she wept, and in that fragile moment, something shifted in both of us.
We became friends.
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