For the past ten years, I have lived as if my existence had no meaning. My husband was killed in a devastating car accident, as if that pain wasn't enough my daughter Matilda was kidnapped.
Since then, my life feels like an unmoving train, stuck on a relentless journey of endless searching, with no destination in sight.
It was on a Monday morning, I had called in sick. My blood pressure was already high, I couldn't fathom making any kind of conversation at work without the risk of collapsing.
I almost didn't notice it at first, the small, nondescript box sat on my doorstep, as if it had always been there. No return address, no markings, just my name in smudged black ink.
Confused, I reached for my phone and called my boss to ask if he left anything at my doorstep. He told me he didn't. I then called my neighbors and a few of my friends, but they also confirmed that they hadn't made any deliveries either.
So who did. I wonder.
My hands trembled as I picked it up, setting it on the kitchen table. My breath came in shallow gasps as I pulled at the worn tape. I slide out the contents—documents, handwritten notes and photography. My stomach clenched.
Ten years of unanswered prayers, dead-end leads, and a heart that never stopped aching.
Yet as I looked at Matilda's birth certificate. A worn-out teddy bear I recognized, I knew my daughter was still alive out there. The teddy bear had been in her arms the morning she disappeared. A faded picture of her, but not from ten years ago. No. It was recent. My heart pounded as I traced my fingers over her face. She looked older, but those eyes…those were my little angel's eyes.
My eyes were blurred from unshielded tears, but then I saw a single piece of paper with an unfamiliar address.
“Your daughter's location, New Jersey, 128 Maplewood Avenue, Newark. Apartment 3A.
The room spun around me. Could this be real? Could I really find my little girl after all these years?
I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my keys and ran out the door.
I took a flight, landed in New Jersey at noon. I had gotten into the first taxi I saw, gripping on my handbag so tightly my knuckles turned white. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. What if it wasn't her? What if this person or these people are just playing a cruel joke on me?
The taxi parked outside the run-down apartment building. My pulse hammering in my ears. Taking a deep breath. I forced my legs to move. Up the stairs. Down the dimly lit hallway. I stood in front of 3A.
My hands shook as I knocked.
Seconds later, the door creaked open which felt like eternity.
There she was.
My little girl. Matilda.
She was taller, thinner, but I'd known her anywhere. I gave birth to her. My breath caught as she looked up at me wary.
“Can I help you?” Her voice was soft, cautious.
Tears blurred my vision. “Angel…” my voice cracked. “It's me. It's mommy”
She frowned, then—something flickered in her expression. Recognition. Uncertainty.
“B-but my parents are dead.” She whispered.
I felt my heart break a little bit more, I brought out a photograph from my handbag showing it to her with trembling hands.
“I have been looking for you for ten years nonstop angel, and I promised myself that I would bring you home no matter what, I could never die without seeing my little girl.”
Her lips parted, and for a moment, I saw the little girl she used to be. Then slowly, hesitantly, she stepped forward.
“Mama?”
“Yes, yes it is me baby.”
“Mama!”
I pulled into my arms, holding her tightly as I could, as if letting go would make her disappear again.
She cried into my arms, and I could feel the weight of all the years of pain in her tears. But I knew we had a long journey of healing ahead, but this time, I wasn't losing her. Never again.
Made a little editing using Ai gallery
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