I was only three years old when my father first told me I was adopted. We were sitting together on the couch, and I had just finished stacking colorful blocks into a towering structure. He smiled at me—though it was the kind of smile that never quite reached his eyes.
“Sweetheart,” he said, resting a firm yet gentle hand on my shoulder. “There’s something important I need to tell you.”
I clutched my stuffed rabbit, looking up at him with innocent curiosity. “What is it, Daddy?”
His voice was soft but steady. “Your real parents couldn’t take care of you, so your mom and I stepped in. We adopted you to give you a better life.”
I frowned, my young mind struggling to grasp his words. “Real parents?”
He nodded. “Yes, but they loved you very much. Even though they couldn’t keep you, they wanted the best for you.”
I didn’t fully understand, but the mention of love reassured me. “So you’re my daddy now?”
“That’s right,” he said, pulling me into a hug. I nestled against him, feeling warm and safe, unaware of how those words would shape my entire life.
Six months later, my mother died in a car accident. My memories of her are blurred—a distant smile, the soft scent of her perfume, a voice that I can never quite recall. After that, it was just me and my father.
For a while, things felt normal. He made peanut butter sandwiches, let me watch cartoons on Saturday mornings, and even tucked me in at night. But as I grew older, something shifted.
When I was six, I struggled to tie my shoes. Frustration welled up in me, and I began to cry.
Dad sighed, watching me fumble with the laces. “Maybe you got that stubbornness from your real parents,” he muttered.
I blinked up at him. “Stubborn?”
He shook his head, standing up. “Just figure it out.”
Little comments like that became routine. Whenever I made a mistake, whenever I fell short of his expectations, he’d shake his head and say something about my “real parents.”
When I turned six, he threw a backyard barbecue, inviting all the neighbors. I was excited to show the other kids my new bike. But as the adults gathered, drinks in hand, my father lifted his glass and said, “You know, we adopted her. Her real parents couldn’t handle the responsibility.”
The laughter faded. My small hands tightened around my plate of chips.
One of the mothers frowned. “Oh, that’s so sad.”
Dad nodded, taking a sip of his drink. “Yeah, but she’s lucky we took her in.”
His words stung. The next day, the kids at school whispered behind my back.
“Why didn’t your real parents want you?” one boy sneered.
“Are you gonna get sent back?” a girl giggled.
I ran home, tears streaming down my face, hoping for comfort. But when I told Dad, he simply shrugged. “Kids will be kids,” he said. “You’ll get over it.”
As the years passed, the weight of my father’s words settled deep into my bones. Every birthday, he’d drive me past an orphanage, pointing at the children playing in the yard. “See? You should be grateful. They have no one.”
By the time I was a teenager, I dreaded my birthday.
The idea that I wasn’t wanted followed me everywhere. In high school, I kept my head down, worked hard, and tried to be perfect—hoping to prove I was worth keeping. But no matter what I did, I always felt like I wasn’t enough.
When I was sixteen, I finally asked about my adoption.
“Can I see the papers?” I questioned one evening over dinner.
His fork clattered against the plate. Without a word, he disappeared into his office and returned with a single sheet—a document stamped with my name, a date, and an official-looking seal.
“See?” he said, tapping the paper. “There’s your proof.”
I stared at it, an uneasiness stirring in my gut. Something about it felt… off. Incomplete. But I didn’t press further.
Years later, when I met Matt, he noticed the walls I had built around myself almost immediately.
“You don’t talk about your family much,” he remarked one evening as we sat on the couch.
I shrugged. “Not much to say.”
He didn’t let it go. Over time, I told him everything—the adoption, the orphanage visits, the constant reminders that I was lucky to be taken in.
“Have you ever thought about looking into your past?” he asked one night, his voice gentle.
“No,” I said quickly. “Why would I? My dad already told me everything.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes held a quiet intensity. “What if there’s more to the story? Wouldn’t you want to know?”
For the first time, I hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“Then let’s find out together,” he said, squeezing my hand.
We drove to the orphanage where I had supposedly lived. It was smaller than I imagined, with faded bricks and a worn playground. My palms were damp as Matt parked the car.
Inside, a woman with short gray hair and kind eyes greeted us. “How can I help you?”
I swallowed hard. “I was adopted from here when I was three. I’d like to find records on my biological parents.”
She nodded and began searching through the system. Minutes passed. Her frown deepened as she flipped through a thick binder.
Finally, she looked up, her expression apologetic. “I’m sorry, but we have no record of you. Are you sure this is the right orphanage?”
My stomach twisted. “What? But… this is where my dad said I was adopted from.”
Matt leaned in. “Could it be another orphanage? A mistake in the records?”
She shook her head. “We keep meticulous files. If you were here, we’d have a record.”
The world spun. My whole life—everything I had been told—felt like a lie.
The car ride home was silent. My thoughts raced.
“Are you okay?” Matt asked gently.
“No,” I admitted. “I need answers.”
When we arrived at my father’s house, my heart pounded. I knocked firmly. After a moment, he opened the door, looking surprised.
“Hey,” he said cautiously. “What’s going on?”
I didn’t hesitate. “We went to the orphanage. They have no record of me. Why would they say that?”
His face paled. After a long pause, he sighed heavily and stepped aside. “Come in.”
Matt and I followed him into the living room. He sank into his chair, running a hand through his graying hair.
“I knew this day would come,” he murmured.
My breath hitched. “Why did you lie to me?”
He looked down, his voice barely above a whisper. “You weren’t adopted. You’re your mother’s child… but not mine. She had an affair.”
My heart stopped. “What?”
“She cheated on me,” he said bitterly. “When she got pregnant, she begged me to stay. I agreed, but I couldn’t bear it. So I made up the adoption story.”
I trembled. “You lied to me my whole life?”
“I was hurt. Angry. I didn’t know how to handle it. I’m sorry.”
I stood, my voice shaking. “I can’t do this. I need space.”
Matt took my hand. “Let’s go.”
As we walked out, my father called after me, “I really am sorry!”
But I didn’t turn around.