Grandma left me one thing: a folded old map. At first it looked like junk. Then I saw the stars — tiny ones, drawn by hand. One marked the playground where I broke my arm at six. One marked the corner where my bike flipped. Every place I'd ever been hurt had a star. But there was one I'd never been: far out at sea, alone in the blue. What happened to me out there that I didn't remember?

I called my mom and asked about the sea star straight out. The line went quiet. 'Come over,' she finally said, her voice shaking. 'There's something I should have told you a long time ago.' I grabbed the map and drove.

Mom sat me down at the kitchen table. 'When I was pregnant with you, our boat went down at sea,' she said. 'Grandma swam out and pulled us both up. You were born three days later. She marked that spot so you'd know how hard the world fought to keep you.'

I added a star of my own to the map that night, right next to the sea one. Not a wound, but the moment I learned the truth. I framed the map and hung it by the door. Every scar was a story now, and every story said the same thing: I was loved, and I was here.