But there was so much more that I had buried deep inside me—the annual visits to the orphanage on my birthday, where my dad would point out other children and remind me how fortunate I was. The way he spoke about my “real parents” as if I were a burden handed over to him. The cruel whispers from classmates who wondered if I’d ever be “sent back.”
“Have you ever looked into your past?” Matt asked one evening.
“No. My dad already told me everything.”
“Are you sure?”
That question lingered in my mind for days.
For the first time in my life, I decided to find out the truth for myself.
Matt and I drove to the orphanage where I was supposedly adopted from. My hands shook as we walked inside, where an older woman greeted us with a warm smile and asked how she could help.
“I was adopted from here when I was three,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’d like to find out more about my birth parents.”
The woman nodded and began typing into her computer. The seconds stretched into what felt like hours. Her frown deepened. She checked again, then pulled out an old binder, flipping through the pages. Finally, she looked up, her expression unreadable.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “We have no record of you here.”
I felt the breath leave my lungs. “What?”
“Are you sure this is the right orphanage?”
“Yes!” I insisted. “This is the place. My dad brought me here every year. He showed me this place!”
She shook her head. “If you had been here, we would have records. But there’s nothing. I’m so sorry.”
The room felt like it was closing in around me. I didn’t know what to think or feel. My world was unraveling.
The ride back was silent. Matt kept glancing at me, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak.
“Are you okay?” he finally asked.
“No,” I whispered. “I need answers.”
I knew exactly where to get them.
When we arrived at my dad’s house, I didn’t hesitate. I walked straight to the door and knocked firmly.
He opened it, his face showing a mixture of surprise and concern. “What’s going on?”
“I went to the orphanage,” I said, my voice quivering with anger. “They don’t have any record of me. Why would they say that?”
For a moment, he stood frozen, his expression unreadable. Then, he let out a long sigh and stepped aside. “Come in.”
I didn’t wait for him to sit. I demanded, “Tell me the truth. Now.”
He rubbed his face, looking more tired than I had ever seen him. “I knew this day would come.”
“What do you mean? Why did you lie to me?”
He was silent for what felt like an eternity. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said the words that shattered everything I thought I knew.
“You weren’t adopted. You’re your mother’s child… but not mine.”
My heart stopped. “What?”
“She had an affair,” he admitted, bitterness seeping into his voice. “When she got pregnant, she begged me to stay. I agreed, but I couldn’t look at you without seeing what she did. So I made up the adoption story.”
The world tilted beneath my feet. “You lied to me all these years?”
He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “I was angry. I thought… maybe if you believed you weren’t mine, it would make it easier for me to accept you. To forgive her. It was foolish, and I regret it.”
I felt betrayed in a way I couldn’t describe. The orphanage visits, the constant comments about my “real parents”—it had never been about me. It had always been about him and his unresolved pain.
I stood up, my legs shaky. “I can’t do this,” I said, my voice breaking. “I was just a child. I didn’t deserve this.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I know I failed you.”
Matt stood too, his anger palpable as he glared at my dad. “Let’s go,” he said softly, guiding me to the door.
As we left, my dad’s voice called out, “I’m sorry! I really am!”
But I didn’t look back.
For the first time in my life, I walked away from the past. And this time, I knew I wasn’t looking back.