My whole life, my mother insisted we had no one else, no history, no family outside of the two of us. So, after I buried her and hired a private investigator to find answers, I thought I was chasing old documents—until I realized someone was watching me first.
When my mother died, the hardest part was coming home to a spotless apartment, sitting in the silence, and realizing that the one thing she’d always warned me about had finally come true: I was alone.
I’m 32 years old. I own a small translation agency in Chicago. I have six employees and a client base I’ve built from scratch over the past ten years.
On paper, my life seems perfect.
After my mother died, I didn’t think so.
Her name was Maria. She wasn’t exactly cold, but she was withdrawn in a way I never understood. She loved me deeply, but she treated the past like a locked room filled with poison gas. If I even touched the handle, the door would slam.
“Did you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“And your grandparents?”
“They’re gone.”
“Where was Dad from?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
