My next door neighbor, Rebecca, had been part of my life for as long as I remembered. She wasn’t just someone living next door, but a loving and caring woman who always offered cookies and never forgot anyone’s birthday.

Rebecca never married and never had children – at least that’s what I had been told.

She was part of my family while I was growing up, while out of town to attend college, and even after I moved to my childhood neighborhood after staring my own family.

“Come and taste these cookies,” Rebecca would often say. “I think I perfected the recipe this time.”

Needless to say, I always enjoyed her sweet treats.

Some two months ago, I noticed Rebecca’s health decline.

She became fragile and whenever I insisted she needed to see a doctor, she’d say she was fine, it was just her age.

When she finally agreed to go to the hospital for a check-up, she was told she had cancer; terminal.

My neighbor was only given weeks to live.

One day, she called me on the phone and urged me to get to her house.

“Maggie… please, come. Urgently.”

I ran to her place and saw her in her bed.

“Maggie, open the drawer and take out the wooden box,” Rebecca said, “Open it!”

I could feel something unexpected was going to happen. But I did as I was told.

Inside the beautifully craved wooden box was a picture of Rebecca from her young days. She was pregnant. “But she never had children,” I thought to myself. But then, I noticed a tiny hospital bracelet with my name and my birth date written on it.

I froze. “What’s this?” I asked, confused.

Rebecca lifted her head and said, “Please read the letter and you’ll understand.”

The letter in the wooden box was worn at the creases, as if it had been opened and refolded countless times over the years.

In it, Rebecca wrote of her love for me. She wrote that she became pregnant at very early age and couldn’t take care of a baby herself. And then she met my parents, a wonderful couple who couldn’t have children on their own.

She decided to give me up for adoption, but on one condition, to moved next door and see me grow.

I couldn’t believe what I was reading. When I turned to Rebecca, I saw tears rolling down her face.

It was then that I understood why she was always there and why she took care of me throughout all those years.

Rebecca wrote that she cherished every moment spent with me, even from a distance.

She asked me to forgive her, and I did. She was a kind woman who did what she thought was the best for me, and yet, she remained part of my life.

Unfortunately, Rebecca died the following day.

Her funeral was small, but everyone from the neighborhood attended it.

There, I stood by the two people who raised me, saying the final goodbye to the woman who gave me life.

Following the funeral, my mom and dad shared stories of how Rebecca would often stop by after I went to bed just to stay by my side and see me sleeping. They told me she loved me unconditionally, and even helped them financially, but they never said anything because she made them promise to keep it a secret.

I wasn’t mad at my birth mom. On the contrary, I was thankful for everything she had done for me, sacrificing her life to watch me grow and be there for every milestone I’ve ever reached, being happy for every success of mine while watching from the distance.

The wooden box she gave me contained more letters that I re-read whenever I think of that incredible woman.

Please SHARE this story with your family and friends on Facebook.

Bored Daddy

Love and Peace