Birth certificates.
Letters.
One folder had my name.
Not Anna Reed.
Not Anna Hale.
ANNA ROSE MARLOWE.
I sat.
Thomas removed a birth certificate.
Mine.
Then another document.
A hospital record.
Then an envelope.
“This was addressed to you.”
“From whom?”
“Your mother.”
My heart stopped.
“No.”
Thomas pushed it toward me.
The envelope was yellow with age.
Across the front, in handwriting I had seen only once before, were the words:
