I opened it to find a stack of childhood drawings. My heart stopped when I saw what they depicted: stick-figure family portraits of Emily, David, and me. In every drawing, I was labeled “Mom.”
Tears welled up as I sifted through the pictures—scenes of us baking cookies, planting flowers, and laughing together. Moments I had assumed were insignificant to her had been lovingly captured in crayon and marker.
“I’ve always loved you, Mom,” Emily said softly, breaking years of silence. “It took me a long time to say it because I didn’t want to forget my birth mom. But you’ve always been there for me, and I see you as my mom. I always have.”
Her words dissolved every fear and doubt I’d carried for years. I had questioned my place in her life, believing I was tolerated rather than loved. In that moment, those beliefs were shattered.
We hugged tightly, tears flowing as years of emotional distance melted away. That night, we stayed up talking—about David, her memories, her fears, and the moments that had meant more to both of us than we’d ever expressed.
The car was a kind gesture, but the true gift lay in her words and drawings. They marked a new beginning for us, one built on love, understanding, and a bond we both finally embraced.