I waited until I was alone in my car to open it. Inside was a letter from the woman I’d helped. She thanked me for sparing her shame, then revealed something unexpected. She had been adopted and searching for her roots. My name appeared beside hers in old records. Our biological mother’s name was Mary—my mother’s name, who once confessed she had given up a baby before me.
She wrote that she hadn’t planned to tell me, but seeing my name tag and my kindness convinced her. She didn’t ask for anything, only wanted me to know she existed. She signed it: Hannah. My sister. I called her immediately. We met the next day, and weeks later a DNA test confirmed it. Now she and her son visit often. We’re still learning how to be family—all because one night, someone was six dollars short.
