The handwriting belonged to my older sister, Claire.
My sister had been dead for eleven years.
I knew that handwriting.
I had seen it on birthday cards, grocery lists, Christmas presents, and the last note she ever left on my kitchen counter.
There was no mistaking it.
My fingers trembled as I unfolded the paper.
There were only six words.
“Please protect him. He is yours.”
I read it again.
Then again.
The room seemed to tilt around me.
Leo was standing beside the bed, watching my face carefully.
“What does it say?” he whispered.
I looked at him.
“What did you mean when you said someone told you to show this to me?”
Leo hugged his arms around himself.
“Before I came here, a lady told me.”
“What lady?”
“I don't know her name.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“At the group home.”
“When?”
He thought for a moment.
“Two weeks ago.”
I sat beside him.
“What did she look like?”
“Old.”
That made no sense.
“Older than me?”
He nodded.
“Gray hair?”
Another nod.
“Did she tell you her name?”
Leo shook his head.
“She said names were dangerous.”
A chill ran down my back.
“Did she tell you anything else?”
Leo looked at the object on the bed.
“She said if I ever got adopted, I should keep it hidden. And if my new mom was named Margaret…”
He stopped.
My heart seemed to stop with him.
“My name is Margaret,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“How?”
“She told me.”
I stared at him.
“Who?”
“The lady.”
I looked again at the note in my hand.
The handwriting was Claire's.
But Claire had been dead for eleven years.
There had to be an explanation.
There always was.
At least, that was what I told myself.
I folded the note and slipped it into my pocket.
“Leo, I need to ask you something.”
He nodded.
“Has anyone ever told you anything about my family?”
“No.”
“Have you ever heard the name Claire?”
His face changed.
Just slightly.
But I noticed.
“You know that name.”
He looked down.
“The lady said it.”
My mouth went dry.
“What exactly did she say?”
Leo hesitated.
“She said Claire was your sister.”
I couldn't breathe.
My husband appeared in the doorway.
He had been smiling when he came upstairs, but his expression changed the moment he saw my face.
“What happened?”
I looked at him.
“I think we need to talk.”
Leo immediately stiffened.
My husband noticed.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Nothing bad is happening. You're safe.”
Leo nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on me.
I motioned for my husband to come inside.
Then I shut the bedroom door.
For the next twenty minutes, I told him everything.
About the object.
The note.
The handwriting.
Claire.
The mysterious woman.
By the time I finished, my husband was staring at the object as though it might suddenly explain itself.
“Are you sure that's her handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“Completely?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“Margaret, your sister died eleven years ago.”
“I know.”
“So either someone has a copy of her handwriting…”
“Or?”
He didn't finish.
I didn't need him to.
There were too many possibilities, and none of them made sense.
We called the adoption agency.
The social worker returned within an hour.
When she entered Leo's room and saw what was lying on the bed, she froze.
“You found it.”
My husband and I looked at her.
“You knew about this?”
She immediately shook her head.
“No. Not specifically.”
“Then why did you say that?”
She swallowed.
“Because Leo's previous caseworker mentioned that he had a personal item he refused to let anyone examine.”
“What kind of item?”
“She didn't know.”
I pointed at the object.
“Did you know he was supposed to bring this here?”
“No.”
“Did anyone tell you to give him to us?”
Her expression became uncomfortable.
“That isn't how adoption placement works.”
“That's not what I asked.”
She stared at me.
Then she lowered her voice.
“There was something unusual about Leo's file.”
My husband folded his arms.
“What kind of unusual?”