“She’s not ours,” Clair said. “She’s your daughter.”
At first, I laughed nervously. Then the memories hit me—22, scared, alone, pregnant, choosing adoption because I thought it was best. Now, my child was standing in front of me, and I had a second chance.
Clair explained everything: the first adoptive family lost custody, the records were sealed, and Eden ended up with them unknowingly. My daughter had spent years in foster care. The life I imagined for her had never existed.
“You have a choice now,” Clair said. “If you want to be in her life, I’ll help. Whatever it takes.”
With the support of my fiancé Miles and Clair, we navigated the grueling process—meetings, interviews, home visits. Months later, a judge signed the papers. Eden was officially mine.
The transition was gentle. We let Eden adjust, painted her room in her favorite color, made pancakes on Sundays, watched silly movies, and slowly, she began to trust that she was home. One evening, I told her:
“I’m your mom. Your biological mom. I thought I was doing what was best by letting someone else raise you. But I never stopped thinking about you.”
She climbed into my lap and whispered, “I knew you’d come back.”
Six months later, our mornings are filled with braided hair, school lunches, bedtime stories, and bedtime kisses. Clair visits every Sunday, and Eden runs into her arms like no time has passed. Love has grown, messy and complicated, but unconditional.
Life taught me that some chapters can reopen, rewritten and redeemed. This time, I’m not letting go. Because this isn’t just my story anymore—it’s ours.
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