I always knew I was adopted. My parents never hid that from me. They said I was chosen—that they waited and waited until they could bring me home. It was never a secret or a sore spot. Just a fact, like my favorite ice cream flavor or how I used to be afraid of the dark.
And truthfully, my childhood was wonderful. My parents were present, loving, and supportive. They cheered at my soccer games, helped with homework, and always made my birthday feel special. I never felt unwanted. Never felt different. They were my parents in every way that mattered.
So I never thought to ask more.
But a few weeks before my 18th birthday, strange things started happening. An odd email showed up with no real message—just “Happy early birthday, Emma. I’ve been thinking about you. I’d love to talk.” It had no name, no signature. Then came friend requests from a profile with no photo. The name was “Sarah W.” I didn’t know a Sarah W.
I ignored it.
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