It had always been our shared dream to grow our family. My wife couldn’t have children of her own, so it had been just the three of us—her, me, and my five-year-old daughter, Sophia, from my previous marriage. We adored her deeply, but the longing to welcome another child never left us. For months, we explored our options, weighing the responsibilities, until we decided on adoption. We wanted to give a child the same love and stability we had built together.
When we arrived at the children’s shelter, we were warmly welcomed by Mrs. Garcia, the kind-eyed director with neatly tied gray hair. She explained the process before leading us into the playroom—a place filled with laughter, chatter, and the clatter of toys. Children raced around, built towers, and played games, their joy filling the air. We joined in, smiling and laughing, but in the back of our minds, we were waiting for that one moment of connection.
While I was helping two boys with a puzzle, I felt a gentle tap on the back of my head. Turning around, I saw a little girl looking at me with a steady, searching gaze. “Are you my new dad?” she asked softly. “I think you are.” Her words left me frozen. My wife’s expression shifted, her face pale with surprise. The resemblance to Sophia was uncanny—same bright eyes, same small smile—and when she reached for my hand, I noticed it: a small, curved mark on her wrist, identical to Sophia’s birthmark.
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