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The Unfinished Letter
#WritcoStoryPrompt21
'My dear child,
I know you had your doubts about your birth. I couldn't tell you while I was alive so I left you this letter. Your real parents live in...'
I stared at the unfinished letter in shock. How was I supposed to find my true identity? The words on the page blurred as my mind raced. My real parents? Where did they live? Why had no one told me this before? Questions swirled in my head, each more urgent than the last.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. There had to be clues, something more that could guide me. I rummaged through the old box where I found the letter, hoping for another hint. Photos, trinkets, and other mementos from my late grandmother’s life spilled out, but nothing seemed to hold the answer I needed.
Then I saw it—a small, worn envelope tucked away at the bottom of the box. My hands trembled as I opened it, revealing a faded photograph of a young couple standing in front of a charming old house. On the back, in my grandmother’s familiar handwriting, were the words: "The home of truth, where your journey begins."
I stared at the photo, my heart pounding. This had to be the place. But where was it? I noticed a barely visible sign in the background of the photo. Squinting, I could just make out the name of a town: Greenfield.
Greenfield. It wasn't far from here, just a couple of hours' drive. Determination surged through me. I grabbed my keys, the photograph, and the letter, and headed out the door. As I drove, the landscape blurred, my mind filled with thoughts of what awaited me in Greenfield.
Arriving in the quaint town, I felt a mix of anxiety and hope. The house in the photograph was easy to find; it looked almost the same, just older and more worn. I walked up to the front door, my heart racing, and knocked.
A middle-aged woman answered, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw the photograph in my hand. "You must be Emily," she said softly, as if she had been expecting me. "Please, come in."
As I stepped inside, the woman introduced herself as Helen. She led me to a cozy living room where an older couple sat, their eyes filled with both hope and fear. They looked at me as if I were a long-lost treasure.
"Emily," Helen began, "these are your real parents, David and Susan."
Tears welled up in my eyes as the reality of the situation sank in. We sat together, sharing stories and piecing together the fragments of my past. It was overwhelming, but also strangely comforting. I had found the answers I was seeking, but I also realized that my identity was not solely defined by my past.
In that moment, surrounded by newfound family and the warmth of their home, I understood that my journey was just beginning. My true identity was not just about where I came from, but also about who I chose to become. And with each step forward, I was determined to honor the love and courage of all those who had been part of my life’s tapestry.
© Pradip Hogade
'My dear child,
I know you had your doubts about your birth. I couldn't tell you while I was alive so I left you this letter. Your real parents live in...'
I stared at the unfinished letter in shock. How was I supposed to find my true identity? The words on the page blurred as my mind raced. My real parents? Where did they live? Why had no one told me this before? Questions swirled in my head, each more urgent than the last.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. There had to be clues, something more that could guide me. I rummaged through the old box where I found the letter, hoping for another hint. Photos, trinkets, and other mementos from my late grandmother’s life spilled out, but nothing seemed to hold the answer I needed.
Then I saw it—a small, worn envelope tucked away at the bottom of the box. My hands trembled as I opened it, revealing a faded photograph of a young couple standing in front of a charming old house. On the back, in my grandmother’s familiar handwriting, were the words: "The home of truth, where your journey begins."
I stared at the photo, my heart pounding. This had to be the place. But where was it? I noticed a barely visible sign in the background of the photo. Squinting, I could just make out the name of a town: Greenfield.
Greenfield. It wasn't far from here, just a couple of hours' drive. Determination surged through me. I grabbed my keys, the photograph, and the letter, and headed out the door. As I drove, the landscape blurred, my mind filled with thoughts of what awaited me in Greenfield.
Arriving in the quaint town, I felt a mix of anxiety and hope. The house in the photograph was easy to find; it looked almost the same, just older and more worn. I walked up to the front door, my heart racing, and knocked.
A middle-aged woman answered, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw the photograph in my hand. "You must be Emily," she said softly, as if she had been expecting me. "Please, come in."
As I stepped inside, the woman introduced herself as Helen. She led me to a cozy living room where an older couple sat, their eyes filled with both hope and fear. They looked at me as if I were a long-lost treasure.
"Emily," Helen began, "these are your real parents, David and Susan."
Tears welled up in my eyes as the reality of the situation sank in. We sat together, sharing stories and piecing together the fragments of my past. It was overwhelming, but also strangely comforting. I had found the answers I was seeking, but I also realized that my identity was not solely defined by my past.
In that moment, surrounded by newfound family and the warmth of their home, I understood that my journey was just beginning. My true identity was not just about where I came from, but also about who I chose to become. And with each step forward, I was determined to honor the love and courage of all those who had been part of my life’s tapestry.
© Pradip Hogade
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