On the morning of my 18th birthday, as my parents were making my favorite pancakes, a knock at the door changed everything. Standing there was a woman I didn’t recognize—her expression tired but intense. Her first words? “I’m your real mother. You need to come with me—before it’s too late.”
I’d always known I was adopted. My parents were open about it from the beginning. They’d say, “We chose you because we loved you from the very start.” I never felt anything but deeply loved. They supported every dream, celebrated every moment, and created a home filled with warmth and kindness.
But a week before my birthday, unusual things started happening—anonymous emails and a friend request from a blank profile. I brushed them off, until that woman appeared at our door.
She handed me a stack of documents—birth certificates, adoption papers, everything seemed to match. Her name was Sarah. She told me she’d been forced to give me up, that my parents had hidden the truth.
My mind was reeling, but I agreed to meet her later to hear more. When I told my parents, they were devastated. My mom’s eyes filled with tears. My dad’s voice turned firm and protective. “Emma, be careful. Not everything is as it seems.”
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