she quietly handed me a box. Inside were dozens of letters. All of them addressed to me. One for every year of my life. “I’m your mother,” she said, her voice trembling. “I… I watched from here. I never stopped.” She explained that she was autistic—sensitive, easily overwhelmed, and at the time of my birth, unable to raise a child on her own. My father had placed me in foster care, and she hadn’t fought him. But she had never forgotten me. Instead, she moved into the house next door, quietly tending to the land,
writing me letters she never had the strength to send. I was stunned. Hurt. And yet, as I read her words—some shaky, some scribbled, some beautifully written—I felt her love. Her regret. Her hope. It wasn’t the reunion I imagined. There were no hugs, no dramatic tears. Just two awkward people, sitting in mismatched lawn chairs, drinking tea and figuring out what family might look like now. We’re still learning. Still awkward. But we’ve got yoga, warm mugs, and that yellow fence between us—once a source of frustration, now a symbol of a connection that refused to disappear. Funny how something so simple could lead me home.