A Lifetime of Lies
For thirty years, I believed a story—a story I thought was my own. I was told I had been adopted, that my biological parents had given me up. I grew up believing I had been unwanted. But nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared me for the truth I uncovered when I walked into the orphanage that was supposed to be my first home.
It all started when I was three years old. My father sat me down on the couch, his large hand resting on my tiny shoulder. I don’t remember much about that day—just the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Sweetheart, there’s something you should know,” he had said gently.
I clutched my favorite stuffed rabbit and looked up at him.
“Your real parents couldn’t take care of you,” he explained. “So your mom and I stepped in. We adopted you to give you a better life.”
At the time, I didn’t fully understand. But when he hugged me, I felt safe. I felt like I belonged.
That feeling wouldn’t last.
A Childhood of Doubt
Six months later, my mother died in a car accident. I barely remember her—just the warmth of her voice and the softness of her touch. After that, it was just me and my father.
At first, he tried. He made peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. He let me watch cartoons on Saturday mornings. But as I grew older, something shifted.
When I was six, I struggled to tie my shoes. Frustrated, I started to cry. My father sighed loudly and muttered, “Maybe you got that from your real parents.”
That became his favorite excuse. Any mistake I made, any flaw I had—he blamed on the mysterious people who had “given me up.”
By the time I was a teenager, I had stopped asking questions. The one time I dared to request my adoption papers, he handed me a single sheet of paper—an official-looking certificate with my name, a date, and a seal.
“There,” he said. “That’s all you need to know.”
I stared at it, feeling like something was missing. But why would I doubt him?
Then I met Matt.
The First Cracks in the Story
Matt had a way of seeing through me in a way no one else had.
“You don’t talk about your family much,” he said one night.
I shrugged. “There’s not much to say.”
But there was. I had buried so much—the annual orphanage visits on my birthday, where my father would point at the children and remind me how lucky I was. The way he spoke about my “real parents” as if I were some sort of burden. The whispers from classmates asking 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 stuck with me.
So, for the first time in my life, I decided to find out for myself.
The Search for Answers
Matt and I drove to the orphanage where my father said I had been adopted. My hands trembled as we stepped inside. An older woman greeted us with a warm smile.
“How can I help you?”
I took a deep breath. “I was adopted from here when I was three. I’d like to find out more about my biological parents.”
She nodded and began typing into her computer. The seconds stretched into minutes. Her frown deepened. She checked again. Then, pulling out an old binder, she flipped through its pages.
Finally, she looked up, her expression unreadable.
“I’m sorry,” she said slowly. “There’s no record of you here.”
The air left my lungs. “What?”
“Are you sure this is the right orphanage?”
“Yes!” I insisted, my voice rising. “My dad took 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.”
I felt like the ground had disappeared beneath me.
The car ride home was silent. Matt kept glancing at me, concern written all over his face.
“Are you okay?” he finally asked.
I stared out the window. “No. I need answers.”
And I knew exactly where to get them.
The Truth Comes Out
When we pulled up to my father’s house, I didn’t hesitate. I marched up the steps and pounded on the door.
He opened it, his face filled with surprise. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
“I went to the orphanage,” I said, my voice shaking with fury. “They have no record of me. Why?”
For a moment, he stood frozen. Then, letting out a long sigh, he stepped back. “Come in.”
I barely waited for him to sit down before I demanded, “Tell me the truth. Now.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking years older. “I knew this day would come.”
“What are you talking about?” I snapped. “Why did you lie?”
He was silent for so long that I could hear my own pulse roaring in my ears. Then, in a voice so low I almost didn’t hear him, he spoke the words that shattered my entire life.
“You weren’t adopted. You’re your mother’s child… but not mine.”
My heart stopped. “What?”
“She had an affair,” he admitted, his voice thick with resentment. “When she found out she was pregnant, she begged me to stay. I agreed, but I couldn’t look at you without seeing what she did to me. So I made up the adoption story.”
The room spun.
“You… you lied to me my whole life?”
His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “I was angry. I thought… maybe if you believed you weren’t mine, it would be easier for me to accept. Maybe I wouldn’t hate her so much. It was stupid. I’m sorry.”
I could barely breathe. “You faked the adoption papers?”
“Yes.”
The weight of his deception crashed over me. The comments, the orphanage visits—it had never been about me. It was about him. His bitterness. His inability to let go.
I stood up, my legs unsteady. “I can’t do this,” I whispered. “I was just a kid. I didn’t deserve this.”
His voice broke. “I know. And I know I failed you.”
Matt stood, his jaw tight as he glared at my father. “Let’s go,” he said gently.
As we walked toward the door, my father’s voice called after me. “I’m sorry! I really am!”
But I didn’t turn around.
For the first time in my life, I was stepping away from a past that had never really been mine.
And this time, I wasn’t looking back.