There were three documents inside beneath the photograph.
The first was a hospital record.
St.
Agatha’s Medical Center.
The date was fifty-one years ago, almost to the month.
The mother’s name was listed as Eleanor Ruth Marsh.
The father’s line was blank.
Under *outcome of birth*, two words: *relinquished voluntarily*.
The second document was an adoption agency intake form.
The infant’s assigned case number.
A receiving family’s surname, partially redacted with a thick black line — but the city was still visible.
The city where I grew up.
I set both papers on the passenger seat and picked up the third.
It was a letter.
Handwritten on pale blue stationery, the kind you find in old desk drawers.
The ink was slightly smudged, like the writer’s hand had moved across the page before it dried.
*If you are reading this, then Mr.
Hale found you, and I am already gone.
I am sorry for that.
