The paper felt heavier than it should, as if the weight of every lie and betrayal it contained pressed down on my hands. My mother's name, her rights, her dignity—all of it captured here in faded ink. And the note scrawled at the bottom, "Remove this before it's too late," left a chill deep in my bones. How long had this been hidden here, tucked away in the shadows, just like the truth of my mother's life?
I ran my fingers over the crumbling edges of the document, feeling a strange connection to her, as though she were standing right beside me. Had she felt this same pressure, this same suffocating sense of betrayal? Had she looked around her with distrust, wondering who might be plotting her downfall?
