Amanda had spent years quietly leaving handmade clothes on the doorstep of St. Catherine’s Orphanage. She never sought recognition. She didn’t need it. The act itself—slipping a sweater here, a scarf there—was enough to fill her heart. But the morning she opened her door to find two boxes waiting for her, her heart skipped a beat. Who had found her? And what could possibly be inside after all this time? At seventy-three, Amanda’s life was simple, almost lonely. She lived in a small one-bedroom apartment on the edge of town,

For twenty-five years, I truly believed my husband saved me when I was young, scared, and pregnant. But the moment I walked into his office and saw my first love hiding in the shadows—shaking, pale, terrified to even whisper my name—I felt something inside me break. My name is Angela, and I was forty-seven when I finally realized something awful: I had lived my whole adult life inside a story that wasn’t mine. A story someone else wrote for me. Everyone always said David and I were the dream couple—“relationship