For most of my life, I blamed my hardships on one thing — my mother’s absence. Laurie left when I was just nine months old, leaving my father, Ralph, to raise me alone. I grew up believing she had abandoned us to chase her dreams, and by the time I turned eighteen, she was nothing more than a shadow in my memory.Then, on my eighteenth birthday, a package arrived — simple and unassuming, but heavy with meaning. It was from Laurie. I didn’t open it. Her attempts to reconnect over the years — the phone calls,
the letters, even showing up at our door — had always been met with silence. I wasn’t ready to forgive. A week later, my father came home with news that stopped me in my tracks: “She’s gone,” he said softly. Laurie had passed away from an illness I hadn’t even known she had. That’s when I opened the box. Inside was a novel — her story. Our story. A book she’d written for me, filled with her regrets, her hopes, and her truth. Through the pages,
