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Inside were old documents that had been sent to her by mistake: hospital records from the year I was born, listing a baby named Caleb and a mother with the same name as the woman I had found under the streetlamp. There were also unsent letters written to that child, never delivered. Neither of us jumped to conclusions, but the coincidences were impossible to ignore.
After difficult conversations with my adoptive parents—who had always loved me without hesitation—we decided the only responsible step was to seek clarity through DNA testing, rather than speculation that could cause more harm than healing. The results confirmed what none of us had dared to say out loud. The woman from that night was my biological mother, and the daughter who brought the shoebox was my sister.
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