01/13/2025
I always knew I was adopted—my dad told me when I was three. My adoptive mom passed away just six months later, and I don’t really remember her, just her warm smile. After that, it was just me and Dad.
But growing up wasn’t easy. My dad constantly reminded me I wasn’t really his. Anytime I struggled, he’d say things like, “Maybe you got that from your real parents” or “You’re lucky I even kept you.”
When I was six, he told a group of neighbors I was adopted, loud enough for everyone to hear. By the next day, the kids at school were calling me the “orphan girl.” The teasing never stopped, and when I came home crying, Dad just said, “Kids will be kids.” He even took me to orphanages on my birthdays to show me how “lucky” I was compared to the kids there.
For 30 years, I lived believing I’d been abandoned, that I was a burden. My fiancé, Matt, was the first person to encourage me to dig into my past. “Maybe finding out more about your biological parents could bring you some closure,” he said.
At first, I resisted—what was the point? But eventually, I gave in, and a few weeks ago, we went to the orphanage my dad always said I came from. When we got there, the woman at the desk checked the records and said, “I’m sorry, but there’s no record of you here.” My heart sank.
Confused and shaken, we went straight to my dad’s house. As soon as he opened the door, I blurted out, “We went to the orphanage—they’ve never heard of me. Why did you lie?” He froze. “I knew this day would come,” he muttered. Then, slowly, he began to confess. ⬇️
