When they turned ten, I told them the truth about their father. The news hit them hard, and they grew distant, angry. They lashed out, blaming me for the pain in their lives. “At least our real mom wanted us!” they’d shout. “You’re just here out of pity!” I stood firm, hoping one day they’d see that my love was genuine.
By sixteen, our bond seemed strong, but that’s when everything changed. One day, I came home to find the locks had been changed and a note on the door: “We’re adults now. We need space. Go live with your mom.” The pain was unbearable. They hadn’t even opened the door. I was left with nothing but a suitcase and a broken heart.
At my mother’s house, I wondered if I had made the wrong choices. “They’re testing your love,” my mom said, reminding me of my own rebellious teenage years. But what if they never came back?
Five days later, my phone rang. It was Carrie, her voice soft and apologetic. “Mom, can you come home?”
When I returned, I was stunned. The house was transformed—freshly painted, floors polished, and the nursery was now a home office. The girls stood there, grinning. “We’ve been planning this for months,” Dana said. They’d worked, saved every penny, and done this for me.
Carrie stepped forward, tears in her eyes. “You gave us a family, Mom. Even when we didn’t make it easy. You chose us when you didn’t have to, and we’re so grateful.” As they hugged me, the warmth of their embrace reminded me that love is about forgiveness and healing.
In that moment, I realized that although they hadn’t been born to me, they had become my daughters, my world.