P.S Mom I Love You

My mom, Clara (a whirlwind of vibrant scarves and infectious laughter) – (a librarian with a secret passion for competitive ballroom dancing) – found me huddled under a park bench, clutching a worn-out stuffed rabbit. I was six, a wisp of a child with eyes that held the weight of a much older soul. She didn't ask many questions then, just scooped me up, the rabbit tucked safely under her arm, and whisked me away to her tiny, book-lined apartment that smelled of old paper and cinnamon. It wasn't a fairytale rescue, not with the social worker's paperwork and the lingering uncertainty, but it was undeniably, miraculously, *hers*. She didn't promise me a perfect life, just a safe one, filled with stories. And stories, she provided in abundance, reading to me until I fell asleep, her voice a soothing lullaby against the quiet hum of the city outside.

Years passed, a blur of school plays (where I, surprisingly, shone as the lead), clumsy attempts at baking (always ending in flour explosions), and countless Saturday afternoons spent exploring used bookstores, Clara's hand firmly in mine. But then came the twist. My sixteenth birthday arrived, marked by a mysterious package from a lawyer, revealing a letter from my biological mother, a woman I only knew as a distant, blurry image in my mind. The letter wasn't an apology, or a plea for reconciliation; it was a story – a fantastical tale of a renowned artist who'd had to give me up under extraordinary circumstances, circumstances involving a stolen masterpiece and a daring escape from a shadowy art collector. It explained the old-fashioned rabbit I'd clutched – a miniature replica of a famous painting.

Clara, instead of being upset, simply smiled, a knowing glint in her eye. She'd always known, she confessed, piecing together clues from the rabbit and a faded photograph in my adoption files. The lawyer confirmed the artist's story, adding another layer of intrigue – the art collector, it turned out, had been her own estranged brother. This revelation wasn't the unraveling of my life; rather, it enriched it. I learned that Clara hadn't just adopted a child; she'd adopted a legacy, a mystery, and in the process, we both uncovered a deeper connection, forged not in blood, but in love, stories, and a shared appreciation for the unexpected turns life can take. My amazing mom, the librarian ballroom dancer, had once again shown me that life's greatest treasures are often found in the most unexpted moments.