My life was finally stable — a successful business, a routine, a quiet sense of peace. Then a weathered, unmarked package showed up on my doorstep on a rainy Tuesday, and everything changed. Inside was a photo of a baby with a birthmark identical to mine, a picture of an old, overgrown house labeled “Willow Creek,” and a letter saying the box had been left with me at the orphanage — and only just rediscovered. You see, I grew up in foster care. No real home,
no family history — just bits and pieces I tried not to think about. This box cracked that door wide open.I became obsessed with finding that house. Months turned into years, and eventually, an investigator called: “We found it.” The house was in a remote town, falling apart,
