My name is Jared. I’m 25 years old, living in Ohio with a steady IT job, a girlfriend named Kate who puts up with more of my quirks than she should, and a dog that I treat like my kid. By all measures, life has been good to me. But recently, something happened that flipped my sense of identity upside down. It changed how I see myself, my family, and where I come from.
I was adopted as a baby. My parents never kept that from me—in fact, they were always honest about it. Growing up, I knew that somewhere out there was a young woman who’d given me life but couldn’t raise me. They had one thing from her: a letter written in blue ink on folded paper tucked into a pink envelope with a teddy bear sticker. Her name was Serena. She had been just 16 when she gave birth to me.
In her note she wrote, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be your mommy, but I hope you grow up happy and loved.” It was short, written by someone barely more than a child herself, but full of raw emotion. I used to take that letter out every now and then and reread it. Even as a kid, it struck me how much love and pain could fit into a single page.
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