I told my mom I was infertile after years of trying. She said, “Maybe it’s karma—for that abortion in college.” I froze. I blocked her. Months passed. Then came a letter: no apology, just an adoption flyer with “You” written across the baby’s photo.
I stared at that envelope for a full ten minutes before I even opened it. Her handwriting hadn’t changed—tight, sharp cursive like it was angry at the paper. The envelope was thick, too, like she’d included multiple things. My hands shook. Not from sadness. From disbelief.
The flyer inside was from a local adoption agency. One of those glossy brochures that always feels like marketing for something way more delicate than they treat it. It was folded around a single page featuring a baby boy, maybe seven months old, with curly dark hair and the kind of eyes that feel like they already know you. Above his head, she had scribbled just one word: You.
No “Love, Mom.” No apology. Just that one word.
