When my sister showed up at my door in the middle of a downpour, clutching a DNA test and her adopted daughter’s tiny hand, I knew something was wrong before she spoke. Her voice barely carried over the rain.
“This child isn’t ours anymore.”
What she told me next shattered everything I thought I understood about my past—and rewrote my future.
At the time, my life looked settled from the outside. I was 28, engaged to a man I loved, and finally thriving in my career. My fiancé, Miles, and I had plans—marriage, a home, maybe kids someday. Not now. Someday.
Motherhood was always part of my vision. Just not yet.
My sister Clair was different. She was born ready for responsibility. Four years older, endlessly organized, and naturally nurturing, she had practically helped raise me when our mom worked double shifts. If anyone was meant to be a parent, it was her.
So when she and her husband learned they couldn’t have children biologically, it crushed her. Adoption became her lifeline. Her miracle.
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