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She wrote about an agreement. About a woman who had come to her pregnant and desperate. About a baby Rachel had agreed to adopt temporarily, believing it was the safest option. About secrets kept because the truth felt too dangerous.
My breath caught.
The woman on my porch met my eyes. “Rebecca is my daughter. And now that you know the truth, I want her back.”
I stepped in front of the doorway without thinking.
“That’s not happening.”
“She promised me,” the woman insisted. “When my life was stable, we’d figure it out.”
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