For thirty years, I lived under the shadow of a belief that shaped who I was. I was told I was adopted, that my birth parents couldn’t care for me and had abandoned me. I believed I had been unwanted. But nothing could have prepared me for the truth I uncovered about my past, a revelation that came when I walked into the orphanage that was supposed to be my first home.
It all began when I was just three years old. My dad sat me down on the couch, his hand resting firmly on my small shoulder. I don’t remember many details from that moment—just the way his smile seemed forced, like he was trying too hard to appear comforting.
“Sweetheart, there’s something you need to know,” he said, his voice gentle but strained.
I clutched my favorite stuffed rabbit and gazed up at him, unsure of what was coming.
“Your real parents couldn’t take care of you,” he continued. “So, your mom and I decided to adopt you to give you a better life.”
At the time, those words didn’t make much sense to me, but when he wrapped his arms around me, I felt safe. I felt loved. It was an illusion that wouldn’t last long.
Just six months later, my mom died in a car accident. I barely remembered her—only flashes of warmth, her soft voice, and the comfort of her touch. After that, it was just me and my dad.
For a while, he tried his best. He made me peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. He let me watch cartoons on Saturday mornings. But as the years passed, something began to change.
When I was six, I struggled to tie my shoes. Frustrated, I broke down in tears. My dad sighed heavily, then muttered under his breath, “Maybe you got that stubbornness from your real parents.”
It became his go-to excuse. Whenever I made a mistake or showed a flaw, he blamed it on the parents who had “given me up.”
By the time I reached my teenage years, I had stopped questioning the narrative I had been told. One day, I asked my dad for my adoption papers, and he handed me a single sheet—a certificate with my name, a date, and a seal.
“See? Proof,” he said, and I had no reason to doubt him.
Years went by without me questioning it further. But then I met Matt.
Matt saw something in me that no one else had. “You don’t talk much about your family,” he observed one evening.
I shrugged. “There’s not much to say.”
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