covered in vines — but it matched the photo exactly. Inside, I found a cradle and a faded picture of a woman holding a baby. Beneath it, a letter from my birth mother: “I’m sick. I can’t care for you. I hope you find a better life. I love you.” I broke down. In that moment,
everything I’d tried to bury came rushing back — not just the pain, but the need to understand where I came from. So I did something people thought was crazy: I restored the house. It took a year, but I brought it back to life. I kept the cradle. I framed the photo. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged somewhere. The house wasn’t just wood and nails. It was my history. My home. My beginning.
