One day, on a crowded train, I gave my seat to an elderly woman who kept staring at me before handing me a necklace identical to the one my mother wore in old photographs. She then revealed that my mother had not died giving birth to me, as my father had always claimed. The woman was the midwife who had delivered me, and she showed me a photograph proving that my mother had survived, held me for three days, and named me herself. My young father and both families had taken me away before my mother recovered, and she spent years searching for me until she eventually died of an illness. Before her death, she had given the midwife her necklace and asked her to tell me that she had never abandoned me if she ever found me. After retiring, the midwife searched for me, finally found me, and waited for the right moment to reveal the truth. In that unexpected moment on the train, I discovered that my mother had loved me, fought for me, and never stopped wanting me.
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