For thirty years, I had believed a lie. I thought I was adopted, abandoned by parents who couldn’t keep me. I had always believed I was unwanted. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for the shocking truth I uncovered when I walked into the orphanage that was supposed to be my first home.
It all started when I was three. My dad sat me down on the couch, his hand resting heavily on my little shoulder. I don’t remember much of that moment—only how his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Sweetheart, there’s something you should know.”
I clutched my favorite stuffed rabbit and looked up at him, wide-eyed.
“Your real parents couldn’t take care of you,” he said softly. “So your mom and I decided to adopt you and give you a better life.”
I didn’t fully understand what he meant back then. But when he hugged me, I felt safe. I felt like I belonged.
That sense of security wouldn’t last.
Six months later, my mom died in a car accident. I barely remembered her—only the warmth of her voice and the softness of her touch. After that, it was just me and my dad.
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