For years, we thought we knew every chapter of our daughter’s life. We were the couple who adopted the child no one seemed willing to choose, building our family on love, patience, and quiet determination. Then, twenty-five years later, a single handwritten letter landed in our mailbox — simple, unassuming, and carrying truths we never expected. In one afternoon, memories we thought were settled opened anew, and the story we had lived for decades gained fresh depth.
I’m Margaret, and my husband Thomas and I spent much of our early marriage hoping for children who never came. After years of appointments, hope, and heartbreak, we learned that having a child biologically was unlikely. We mourned, adapted, and eventually found peace — or so we thought.
Then a neighbor mentioned a little girl at a children’s home, waiting for years because of a large birthmark on her face. Something about her story lingered with us.
Soon, we were walking into a playroom, meeting a quiet five-year-old named Lily, whose cautious eyes reflected the countless visitors who had come and gone before us.
Bringing Lily home changed everything. She asked permission for everything, as if fearing the smallest mistake could send her away. School was rough, classmates unkind, but over time, her confidence grew.
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