My mom gave up all her parental rights and left us 8 months after I was born. My dad said she never asked about me and I never met her or spoke to her. A year ago, I saw her name scheduled for an appointment—I work at a law firm.
She came in and all of a sudden, I couldn’t feel my legs. Her hair was shorter than in the only photo I’d ever seen—sharper, streaked with gray. Her voice sounded like honey mixed with rocks: smooth but rough at the edges.
She didn’t recognize me, not even a flicker of pause when she signed in at reception. I stared at the appointment sheet like it might explain the last 25 years. Tirzah Mendel.
Her name looked fake to me. Like it belonged to someone on a different planet, not the woman who birthed me and walked away. She was here for a will dispute—our firm was representing the other side.
I didn’t handle that case directly, but I was the assistant tasked with prepping the files and walking clients to their meetings. So, I had to take her back. She smiled politely as I led her down the hall, asking if this was “your first year here.” I nearly tripped.
My brain screamed to say something, to announce myself, to ask her why. But my mouth said, “No, I’ve been here a while.”
She walked past the family photo I keep at my desk. She didn’t even glance.
After the meeting, she left with her lawyer, chatting about lunch like it was any other Tuesday. I went into the bathroom and threw up. That night, I called my dad.
I hadn’t brought her up in years. The moment I said her name, he went quiet. “I didn’t tell you before,” he said, voice low, “but she tried to reach out when you turned 18.
Just a letter. I didn’t give it to you.”
I felt like I’d been sucker-punched. “Why?”
“She caused you enough pain, Ruhi.
I didn’t want her hurting you again.”
I wanted to scream at him, but I couldn’t. Part of me understood. But part of me—this part I didn’t know existed until that day—was desperate to know her.
Not because I thought she deserved a second chance. But because I deserved answers. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
For weeks, I looked up everything I could—Google, LinkedIn, property records. She lived about 40 minutes away, had remarried, no other kids listed. She was a therapist.
That part made me laugh out loud. Eventually, I sent her a letter. It was short.
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