I couldn’t let it go. Three days later, Miles knocked on my door and invited me over for coffee. “Just to get to know the neighbors,” he said with that easy smile. I almost said no. My hands were ice cold. But something stronger than fear pulled me across the lawn.
His house still smelled of fresh paint and cardboard. We sat in the living room with two mugs of coffee. I tried to make small talk about the neighborhood, the best pizza place, the terrible HOA rules. Then my eyes landed on it.
Draped over the back of an old armchair was a small knitted blanket. Blue yarn, soft as a cloud, with little yellow birds stitched in careful rows. I had made that blanket in secret at the Vermont home, hiding it under my mattress between my mother’s visits. Every stitch had been a prayer, a promise to my unborn son that I loved him.
My mother had told me she burned it.
The room tilted. I grabbed the doorframe. “Where… where did you get that?” My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
Miles looked surprised. He walked over and picked up the blanket gently, running his fingers over the yellow birds. “This? My mom gave it to me. Said it was the only thing I had from my birth mother.” He smiled softly. “She passed away two years ago. Cancer. Before she died, she told me the truth — that I was adopted. That my birth mother was very young and had been told I didn’t make it.”
He looked at me then, really looked, and his expression changed. The smile faded into something raw and searching.
“She said my birth mother’s name was Elena.”
The silence that followed was so complete I could hear my own heartbeat.
I sank onto the couch, legs giving out. Tears came hot and fast. Miles — *Liam* — sat beside me, hesitant at first, then put a careful arm around my shoulders. He smelled like cedar and fresh air.
