The letter remained unopened, tucked under the sugar bowl. On returning from her mother’s funeral, Joan had spent the rest of the day dusting, vacuuming and washing; glancing at the manila envelope and wishing its contents positive.

It’d been right to wait so long, she thought. It wasn’t so much out of respect for the mother who’d wiped away tears and helped choose her wedding gown. It was more a question of what if her blood mother had welcomed her into her arms?

Growing up, Joan had had what mattered most: love and support. The thought of her mother’s face on voicing her curiosity gripped her heart. So, she’d kept quiet.

Now, forty years on, here was the envelope, with the letter therein detailing her real mother, and the name she never knew.

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