I remember exactly how the morning sun felt on my skin as I watered my petunias, blissfully unaware that my entire world was about to change.

Sometimes I wonder if I should have seen the signs over the years, but how could I have known? How could anyone have guessed?

Rebecca had been my neighbor for as long as I could remember. She was the sweet lady who baked cookies for all the kids in the neighborhood, the one who never forgot a birthday, and always had a kind word for everyone.

Even as I grew older, moved out for college, and eventually returned to my childhood home with my own family, Rebecca remained a constant in my life.

"Maggie, sweetie!" she'd call out whenever she saw me in the yard. "Come taste these snickerdoodles. I think I finally perfected the recipe!"

She never married or had kids, but she was like family to me. I helped her with groceries, mowed her lawn, and made sure she had company when she needed it.

Two months ago, I noticed she was getting weaker. Her usual energetic waves from the porch had become tired gestures, and her cookie-baking marathons had stopped entirely.

"Rebecca, you need to see a doctor," I insisted one evening while helping her with dinner. "This isn't like you."

"Oh honey, it's probably just age catching up with me," she tried to brush it off, but I could see the fear in her eyes.

When she finally agreed to see a doctor, the news was devastating. She had a terminal tumor, and they gave her weeks to live.

It was heartbreaking.

She had been there for me my whole life, and now, all I could do was be there for her. I spent every spare moment at her house, reading to her, sharing memories, or just sitting quietly together.

Then, one Saturday morning, I was watering my flowers when my phone rang. It was Rebecca. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Maggie… please, come. Urgently."

Something in her tone made my heart skip a beat.

In fifteen years of living next door to her as an adult, she had never called me like this. So, I immediately dropped the watering can right there and ran to her house without hesitation.

When I arrived, she was lying in bed, looking frailer than ever. Her usually bright eyes were tired, but she smiled weakly when she saw me.

"Rebecca, I'm here," I said, sitting beside her, taking her cold hands in mine. "What do you need? Do you want me to call someone?"

She shook her head. "No, dear. I just need you to do something for me."

"Anything."

Her hand trembled as she pointed toward her bedside table. "Open my bedside drawer... take out the wooden box."

I did as she asked, pulling out a small, intricately carved wooden box.

It was heavier than I expected, and something about the way Rebecca watched me hold it made my heart beat faster. Whatever was inside this box, I knew it was about to change everything.

"Now, open it," she whispered.

My fingers traced the intricate carvings on the box before I lifted the lid. Inside was an old black-and-white photo of a young woman, heavily pregnant.

The moment I looked closer, I gasped.

The woman had Rebecca's eyes and her smile. It was Rebecca, decades younger but unmistakably her.

Beneath the photo was a tiny hospital bracelet, yellowed with age, the kind they put on newborns.

My fingers trembled as I picked it up. Then my heart stopped. My name was written on it. My name. My birth date.

My head spun, and I gripped the edge of Rebecca's bed to steady myself.

"What... Rebecca, what is this?" I barely got the words out.

She exhaled shakily. "Read the letter, sweetheart."

Her voice cracked on the word 'sweetheart,' and I noticed tears rolling down her cheeks.

With trembling hands, I unfolded the aged paper inside the box. The paper was soft, worn at the creases, as if it had been opened and refolded countless times over the years.

"I can't..." I whispered.

"Please," Rebecca urged. "I need you to know... before..."

I blinked back tears and began to read, my voice shaking with each word.