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On my husband’s 50th birthday, I surprised him with a trip to Hawaii.
Yesterday, I turned 50 myself.
Early in the morning, my husband woke me up and softly whispered, “Have a surprise for you downstairs!”
I ran down—only to freeze in shock. Sitting in the middle of the room was a woman.
She had long, graying hair swept into a low bun, and she stood up when she saw me. Her arms were tight by her side, like she was bracing for something.
“This is Clara,” my husband said, coming up behind me. “She’s your birthday gift.”
My jaw tightened. “What?”
“I—okay, let me explain,” he said, already flustered. “You’ve always wondered about your birth mom. I hired someone to find her. And… that’s her. That’s Clara.”
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even look at her.
I’d spent my life wondering who she was, sure—but always in that safe, abstract way. Quiet moments on long drives, little pangs when someone said I didn’t look like my dad. But I’d made peace with not knowing. I had a good life.
But now she was in my living room.
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