Dear Daniel,

I don't know what to call you, so I'm going to use the name I gave you for now. I hope you don't mind. I know you've had another name for twenty-six years, and I'm sure it suits you better.

You were born on a cold Friday morning. The nurse let me hold you once, for about ten minutes, which was more than some of the other girls at the home got. You had a whole head of dark hair and you frowned at me like you were thinking something over. I counted your fingers. I told you I was sorry and I told you I loved you, and I have wondered ever since whether some little part of you heard it.

I want you to know why. I was sixteen. My parents were good people, but it was 1973 in a small town, and nobody believed a girl my age could raise a baby, including me. The social worker told me a family was waiting who could give you everything I couldn't. I believed her, and I still hope with my whole heart that it was true. I hope they read to you. I hope the collie liked you. I hope you had a dad who played catch with you in that big yard.

Every March 9 I bake a small cake. For years I did it after everyone was asleep. Now your sisters help me, and we eat it together and wonder what you're doing. They want to know if you like baseball. I told them I don't know yet.

I'm not writing to ask you for anything. You have a family and a life, and I would never want to take one minute of it from anyone. I am just leaving the porch light on, the way my mother used to. If you ever want to walk up to the door, I'll be there.

With all my love, always,
Janice (your birth mother)