Angela Turner sat at her desk, a cup of tea cooling at her elbow. Through the closed door she could hear the faint strains of the kitchen radio and the sounds of her mother singing along as she baked a cake for tea.  Dad would be sitting at the table pretending to read the paper while he watched his wife. They were like that, she knew. They’d rather be together than apart.

She stared down at the crisp white note paper, unsure of where to start. How strange, she thought. She had been planning this letter for months now, ever since she had begun the process, and now her mind was blank.

More to settle her nerves than from thirst, she sipped at her tea and looked around the room. Practically a museum to her life, the walls were adorned with photographs and posters, the bed covered by the yellow and pink pillows her mother had taught her to sew. On the bookshelves stood copies of her old books and a row of old dolls still wrapped in bandages from her last doll hospital. She knew her parents liked to keep the room just as she left it two years ago for university. Mum probably came in each day just to bring some life to the room. Dad probably teased her for it.

Taking a deep breath, Angela straightened her shoulders and put the tea cup down. Best to get on with the task, she told herself. Procrastinating would only make it harder.

Dear Helen,

Please be assured that I mean you no pain. I have no motives in contacting you other than a simple desire to let you know how I’ve turned out. I will not pester you with letters nor invade your privacy. I understand that this must be painful to you, opening up old wounds. Rest assured that I will understand if this is the only contact we ever have.

I want you to know that I understand, and I have no resentment towards you. I can hardly imagine the pain you went through. You were a child yourself. Faced with such a choice, no one could blame you.

I’ve had a happy life. I’ve grown up in a family filled with love and support, with all of my needs met. I’ve known for as long as far back as I can remember that I was adopted. Even as a child, Mum would tell me stories of how I grew inside another mummy, that God put our family together in a different way. She’s always told me how very lucky she was to have me.

Mum isn’t a fan of secrets. Secrets have a way of eating away at a person or a relationship, and where there is love, there must be trust. She’s quite funny about it, actually. Besides, she says, if the neighbors knew I was adopted, then I should, too. Perhaps that’s why she is supporting me now.

Angela put her pen down for a moment, recalling how Dad didn’t like to talk about it much. He felt things quite deeply, she knew, and sometimes struggled to talk about how he felt. Her decision to attend university and pursue a medical degree had filled him with pride. She could only imagine how his waistcoat buttons would burst with pride when she told him of her decision to specialize in obstetrics. He would try to cover it up with long discussions about techniques and the changing state of medicine today, but she would know his heart was full.

I have a brother, eleven years older than I. Tim is a scientist; he studies butterflies, can you imagine? He’s just married a research biologist. Mum’s glad he’s in London, though she still thinks we don’t see enough of him. His mother died when he was quite young, and he tells me he and Dad were quite lonely before Mum came along. Mum says she was the lonely one.

My parents have quite a romantic story. Dad loves to tell the tale, probably because it always makes Mum blush. They had a difficult road with many obstacles to happiness, and had to face many challenges before they could settle into a happy life. I think it was during this time that Mum learned you have to face your problems honestly in order to conquer them.

Her pen started to skip. Frowning, Angela scratched at her desk blotter, her scratch turning into a silly doodle. It used to drive poor Tim crazy when he would get home from classes late, the last to read the paper only to find it covered in odd scribbles by his father and sister. It became a game of theirs, marking up pages with inside jokes and scrawls meant to tease him from his serious studies. Angela had become adept in randomly placing cartoons in the pages, while her father favored caricatures of the family.

I’ve been at uni for two years now. I plan to study medicine, perhaps specialize in obstetrics. I’m quite lucky to have been able to follow this dream. I like to read, novels mostly. Of course I love the classics, Jane Austen, Elizabeth Gaskell, but my favorite right now is Victoria Holt. I am desperate for her books! Thank goodness Tim no longer lives here, he’d tease me relentlessly!

I have some very good friends, two girls especially. Charlotte, my friend since before I can remember, and Peggy, a newer friend from university, whom I hope to set up practice with when the time comes. No serious boyfriends yet, Dad is happy to report. There was a boy a few years ago, but he preferred a more traditional girl, so…that didn’t work out. No broken hearts, just wounded pride, I suppose.

Angela stopped. She had come to the purpose of her letter. Her forehead crinkled in concern. Was she being selfish, she worried? Would this letter cause anguish? Her parents knew of her intent, and had given their blessing, but had she seen tears in Mum’s eyes when they began this process? Dad was fiercely protective of his wife, and always came to her aid when he thought she was suffering. Angela knew her parents wanted her to be happy above all things, and supported her decisions, only occasionally attempting to redirect her. Surely if Dad believed this would be too painful for Mum he would say?

Her mother’s voice came through the flat, the words to an old Mel Torme song bringing comfort. Mum had been such a help gathering the information she needed, contacting the adoption agency, getting the most up-to-date address for the letter Angela hoped to send. Dad had questioned it, wondering if the whole thing were best left alone. But Mum had been adamant in her support of Angela. The scene in the living room was sharp as if it had happened this morning. Mum stood at the mantel, the eyes of her husband and daughter on her. “Patrick, there’s always room for more love, dearest. It fills in where it’s needed. If I can love more than one child, why can’t Angela love more than one mother? I know Angela loves us. There’s no reason why she can’t love someone else, and continue to love us.”

And there it was, Angela knew. Her mother loved her enough to set her free.

I hope you’ve been able to make a good life for yourself.  I hope that you found love, that you have people in your life that love you back. While our paths may never cross, I am so very grateful to you for your sacrifice.

Most sincerely,

Angela Turner

Reaching for her handkerchief, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. With a deep breath, she folded the letter, slid it into an envelope and addressed it.

“Mum?” she called through the flat.

“In the kitchen, dear,” her mother answered. Shelagh Turner came to the doorway of the warm room, drying her hands on a dish towel. She wore a warm smile.

“I have to go out,” Angela informed her. “I’ve finished and I want to post it before I lose courage.”

Shelagh nodded, her eyes understanding. “Of course, dearest. Are you all right?”

Angela smiled in return. “Yes. It feels right.” She moved to the coat rack, reaching for her jacket. Turning back, she looked at her mother.

“Come with me?” She asked, stretching out her hand.

Shelagh sighed gently. “Always, Angel Girl.”