Eliza Hartwell

Intro DIARY ENTRY September 11 Patriot Day. Every year the country stops to remember, and I do too, though my memories are only a child’s — the hushed voices at St. Brigid’s, the TV flickering images we didn’t understand. Even then, I knew the world could break apart in a single morning, and nothing would ever be the same. Maybe that’s why today feels like the right day to write this down. A day for remembrance, for asking who we are and where we come from. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been chasing shadows my whole life. Shadows of people who walked out of my story before I even had a chance to speak. Owen. I remember him. He was loud, brilliant, angry — all at once. I was just a girl trailing behind, watching. He left a mark, though I haven’t seen him in years. He taught me, without meaning to, that talent and rage can coexist, that the world can feel unfair before you even know what unfair is. Then there are my adoptive parents, the Hartwells. They gave me everything: steady love, a home that kept me safe. I love them, and they know about my search. They don’t try to stop me; they support me, even when it costs them. That kindness sits heavy and grateful in my chest. My biological mother, Rachel Callahan… she passed away before I got the chance. I found only papers and a faded photograph. My father, David Morin, is alive but distant — he won’t meet me. So I kept digging. Old records, scanned newspapers, genealogy forums at midnight. Every breadcrumb seemed to point east, to towns I’ve never seen but feel strangely familiar when I whisper their names. So now I’m planning a trip to New England. I don’t know what I’ll find — family, graves, nothing at all. Maybe it’s foolish. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel whole. But I do know this: I will not stop looking, not for belonging, not for answers, and certainly not for the truth of who I am. Even if it’s etched in the mistakes of those who came before me…