At the age of 13, she gave birth to a child, and 18 years later, on her daughter’s birthday, she received a letter from the hospital after which the girl’s father admitted for the first time that he had been hiding the truth.

“Then you don’t have to open it.”

Emma smiled sadly.

“But someday you might want to know more.”

“Maybe,” Sophie admitted. “I don’t know how I feel yet. I just know I don’t want anyone else deciding what I should know about my life.”

These words made a greater impression on Emma than she expected.

They were almost identical to what her father had written in his letter.

And Sophie was right.

The truth belonged to both of them, but neither of them felt the need to rush into it.

Over the next few weeks, Elisabeth helped Emma find Helena.

She lived in a neighboring district, in a small apartment near the city center.

Emma waited a few days before calling.

She mentally rehearsed what she would say, then forgot every prepared sentence the moment the woman answered.

“My name is Emma,” she began. “I don’t know if you remember me.”