To be published by Caustic Frolic, a literary magazine at NYU, in late May 2020

Penny almost tossed the letter from the adoptees’ group, but on second thought set it aside to read. She’d sent them ten dollars just to be on their mailing list and know what they were up to, so she should at least glance at this latest missive.

Standing at Harmony Acres’ bank of mailboxes, she still had the slim, upright posture that had helped her command schoolrooms, her dark pantsuit blending a teacher’s casual neatness and a widow’s severity. Her complexion did not betray her age, and her hair was so neatly coiffed one might almost think she’d chosen to color it white. . . .

She tucked a bill and a charity appeal into her tote, consigned the rest of the day’s mail to limbo, and turned back to the envelope from the State Adoptees’ Advocacy Association. The organization’s raison d’être – which she hardly shared — was to get state law changed: to allow people adopted long ago to see their original birth certificates.


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