We’d only been in Maine a few weeks when a walk in the woods upended everything I thought I knew about my past. After moving from Texas, the quiet forests felt like a reset, and our son Ryan ran ahead, exploring. Our dog, Brandy, suddenly barked sharply, and I realized Ryan was missing. I followed the sound of his laughter into a clearing—and froze.
Old headstones dotted the area, and Ryan pointed to a small one with a ceramic photo: it was me at four years old, my birthday engraved below. Shocked, I tried to process it. I’d been adopted after a fire in Texas—my past was a mystery.
The next day, a librarian directed me to Clara, an elderly woman who confirmed the truth: I had a twin, Caleb, and our family had died in a fire. One child had survived, and my uncle Tom had placed the headstone, hoping I was alive.
Visiting Tom, seeing old drawings and a scorched yellow shirt, I finally understood: I hadn’t been abandoned—I’d been lost. Returning to the clearing, I left the shirt at the stone and told Ryan about his uncle Caleb. Amid the wind and trees, I realized I’d found not a grave, but my story.