I agreed, partly out of desperation, and quickly learned that Rose was demanding: midnight requests, special meals, and endless disruptions. But then I found an old photo in Sloan’s garage—of Rose holding a baby next to a young Harold. On the back: “Rose and my girl. August 1985.” It hit me. I was the baby. Rose was my mother. Sloan, my father. Rose confirmed it: they’d given me up and spent years trying to find me. Sloan had been watching from next door, too ashamed to say the truth.
In a letter he left, he wrote, “I told myself I was protecting you… I’m sorry. Take care of her. Take care of you. —Dad.” It broke me—but it also healed something. Rose and I slowly rebuilt our relationship, and my garden. We found comfort in the quiet, blooming life we grew together. Two women, once strangers. Now family.
