The key opened a room I had not seen since I was a teenager.
I expected dust and old furniture.
Instead, I found a perfectly preserved little girl’s bedroom.
There was a narrow bed with a faded pink quilt, children’s books on the shelf, and a framed photograph of my mother holding a baby I had never seen before.
On the desk was a box filled with letters.
Every envelope was addressed to someone named Rebecca.
When I confronted Mom, she finally told me the truth.
Before she married my father, she had given birth to a daughter. She was nineteen, unmarried, frightened, and pressured by her parents to place the baby for adoption.
Years later, Rebecca found her.
Mom had secretly met her several times, and they had begun building a relationship. The bedroom was prepared because Mom hoped Rebecca might someday stay with us.
But before she could tell my father—or me—Rebecca died suddenly in a car accident at twenty-three.
Mom couldn’t bring herself to empty the room.
She locked the door and kept every letter Rebecca had ever sent her.
Then Mom handed me the final envelope.
It was addressed to me.
Rebecca had known she had a younger sister.
Her letter ended with: “Maybe someday you’ll know I existed. I hope you won’t be angry that Mom loved us both.”
I wasn’t angry.
I only wished I had known her.
A week later, Mom and I opened the room again together.
For the first time in twenty years, she left the door open.
