Elaine finally sighed.
“You were adopted when you were two. They told us your birth mother wasn’t well.”
Mark added, “They said she left you at a shelter.”
Avery’s heart dropped.
“So she’s real.”
Elaine rushed, “Honey, she’s sick. She imagines things.”
But Avery felt the bandage on her life peeling back—and something raw beneath.
The next day, she went to the park.
The woman sat beneath the elm tree, teddy bear beside her. When she saw Avery, her face crumpled.
“Avery… you came.”
Avery stood firm. “What’s your name?”
The woman swallowed.
“Lydia.”
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a faded photograph.
A younger, healthy Lydia held a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket.
The same blanket folded in Avery’s closet.
“They told me you were taken,” Lydia whispered. “I searched for you for years. I wasn’t crazy—I was grieving.”
Over the next weeks, Avery met Lydia in secret. Every story matched perfectly: the lullaby, the scar on her knee, the nickname “Star.”
Finally, Avery confronted her parents.
“You lied.”
Mark’s voice trembled.
“We didn’t know. Your mother was in an accident. A coma. The system declared you abandoned before she woke up.”