I still think about Sam every day, still hope she’ll turn up in my messages or in the hallways at school. But as second semester begins, she seems more gone than ever. I don’t even spot her ponytail anywhere. When I get the role I hoped for in the spring musical, I have a new rush of sadness at not being able to share the good news with her. And just when I think I can’t miss her any more, my DNA results come in.

For a while, I don’t even open the email. I wonder if she’d respond, if I told her — if she’d be true to her word that she’d be here for me. But I know it’s not fair to ask. I know she needs the time she’s taking, and there’s nothing I can do about it. So I open the email and am presented with information that feels like a complete miracle to me — me, the safe haven baby, me, the drop-in with seemingly no history. I discover that my roots are in Scandinavia, Great Britain, and Western Europe, with a few scattered odd bits. These are the places my mysterious people came from — these are the seeds of my past.

And yes, I’ll sign up to look for DNA matches, but maybe not quite yet. The idea of what might come from that makes me miss Sam too much. I can’t stay stuck in this endless loop of hope and disappointment.

I never wanted to let her go, but the dangling threads of our relationship hurt too much. Like Sam, I have to take control of what I can. And when I consider all she did for me, all she gave me, I am overcome with so much gratitude and love that at the very least I want her to know that.

In a way, it’s incredible that we ever connected at all. If I hadn’t thought to go to the art room in search of things for the World Over set . . . If she hadn’t agreed to let me use her painting . . . If she hadn’t accidentally sent me that text meant for Will . . .

For that matter, I could have been adopted into a different family, and Sam and I might never have met at all.

We are all the products of detours.

I spend the next couple of weeks on a labor of love: collecting the best moments from Starworld into a single document. For Sam. And then I write my final note to her.

Dear Sam,

I hope you’re doing well.