April Jones.

I stare at the small fading yellow house across from the street, I wish I had the guts to walk up to the front door and knock.

I had imagined this day so perfectly in my mind, I would go up to the house and knock, then a young woman would open the door and ask who I was, and I would answer:

"It's April, the daughter you gave away eighteen years ago."

Then she would look at me and smile as her eyes would water with happy tears, she would ask me into her home and offer me a glass of water, which I would kindly reject. Then I would follow her into her seating area and seat on her couch.

She would sit in front of me and say, "I know you have a lot of questions."

"Actually, I only have one." I would reply with a small smile.

She would look at me with a confused and questioning look, but wouldn't say anything, only wait for me to speak.

I imagine I would take a deep breath and then exhale before speaking. And I would tell her, "I don't want to know why you gave me away, I didn't come here to have a relationship with you because I am happy with my family. I just want to know the answers to one question."

"I understand." She would answer with a sad smile.

I would look down at my hand, and then up to her and ask, "why did you name me April?"

But I will never know the answer because the conversation in my head always ends there.

I know if I want the answer I need to walk up to the front door and knock, but I know I can't, and I don't think I ever will.

And I will give the same responses:

No.
No.
I wish I knew.