For as long as I could remember, I believed I was adopted. It was a story I grew up with, one that shaped how I saw myself, my family, and my place in the world. But a visit to the orphanage where I thought my life began revealed a truth I never could have imagined.
I was three the first time my dad gently explained the story. We were sitting in our living room. I had just finished stacking blocks, and he pulled me close.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “there’s something you should know. Your birth parents couldn’t take care of you. So your mom and I adopted you to give you a better life.”
At that age, I didn’t fully understand what it meant. But he reassured me, held me close, and told me I was loved. That was all I needed.
Tragedy struck a few months later when my mom passed away in a car accident. I was too young to remember much about her—just a warm smile and the way she held my hand.
After that, it was just me and Dad.
In the early years, he did his best. We shared peanut butter sandwiches, watched cartoons on Saturday mornings, and built little routines. But as I grew older, our relationship changed.
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