For thirty years, I believed I was adopted—abandoned by parents who couldn’t keep me. That belief shaped my entire identity. But a trip to the orphanage unraveled everything, revealing a truth far more painful than I ever imagined.
The first time my dad told me I was adopted, I was three years old. We were sitting on the couch, my tower of colorful blocks standing triumphantly nearby. I remember clutching my favorite stuffed rabbit as he gently rested a hand on my shoulder.
“Sweetheart,” he began, his voice soft but heavy. “Your real parents couldn’t take care of you. So your mom and I adopted you to give you a better life.”
“Real parents?” I asked, tilting my head in confusion.
“Yes,” he said, managing a thin smile. “But they loved you very much, even if they couldn’t keep you.”
That word—love—made me feel safe. “So you’re my daddy now?”
“That’s right,” he replied, pulling me into a hug. For a moment, I felt secure, like I truly belonged.
Six months later, my mom died in a car accident. The warmth of her soft smile is my only clear memory of her. After that, it was just me and Dad.
At first, he tried. He made my favorite peanut butter sandwiches and let me watch cartoons on Saturdays. But as I grew older, his patience wore thin.
By the time I was six, Dad’s words began to sting.
One day, struggling to tie my shoes, I broke down in tears. Instead of helping, he muttered under his breath, “Maybe you got that stubbornness from your real parents.”
“Stubborn?” I asked, confused.
“Just figure it out,” he snapped, walking away.
Whenever I made a mistake, he blamed it on my “real parents.” If I failed a math test or spilled juice on the carpet, it wasn’t because I was a kid—it was because of the people who had “abandoned” me.
On my sixth birthday, Dad threw a barbecue. I was excited, eager to show off my new bike to the neighborhood kids. But as the adults chatted, Dad raised his glass and casually said, “You know, we adopted her. Her real parents couldn’t handle the responsibility.”
The words hit like a slap. I froze, my plate of chips trembling in my hands.
A woman frowned. “Oh, how sad,” she said, pity in her voice.
Dad nodded. “Yeah, but she’s lucky we took her in.”
The other kids heard. The next day at school, their whispers stung even more.
“Why didn’t your real parents want you?” one boy sneered.
“Are you gonna get sent back?” a girl giggled.
When I ran home crying, Dad shrugged. “Kids will be kids,” he said. “You’ll get over it.”
I never did.
Each birthday became a reminder of my “luck.” Dad would take me to the local orphanage and point out the kids playing outside. “See how lucky you are?” he’d say. “They don’t have anyone.”
By high school, I dreaded my birthday. The weight of being unwanted hung over me. I worked hard, trying to prove I was worth keeping, but deep down, I felt like I never could be.
When I was sixteen, I finally worked up the courage to ask Dad about my adoption.
“Can I see the papers?” I asked hesitantly.
He left the room and returned with a single page—a certificate with my name, a date, and an official-looking seal. “There,” he said, tapping it. “Proof.”
It looked real, but something about it felt incomplete. Still, I didn’t press further.
Years later, when I met Matt, he saw right through my guarded walls. “You don’t talk about your family much,” he observed one night.
“There’s not much to say,” I replied flatly.
But Matt didn’t let it go. When I told him about the adoption, the teasing, and the orphanage visits, he asked gently, “Have you ever thought about looking into your past?”
I shook my head. “Why would I? My dad already told me everything.”
“What if there’s more?” he asked. “Wouldn’t you want to know?”
For the first time, I hesitated.
With Matt’s encouragement, we visited the orphanage where I was supposedly adopted. The small brick building had a worn charm, its faded playground still standing strong.
Inside, a kind woman at the front desk welcomed us. “I’m trying to find information about my biological parents,” I explained.
She asked for my name and adoption details, then began searching through records. The clacking of the keyboard filled the quiet room.
Minutes passed. Her frown deepened as she flipped through a thick binder. Finally, she looked up, her face apologetic.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “We have no record of you here.”
“What?” I whispered, my stomach twisting. “That can’t be right. My dad told me I was adopted from this orphanage.”
Matt leaned forward. “Is it possible there was a mistake? Another orphanage, maybe?”
She shook her head. “We keep meticulous records. If you were here, we’d know. I’m so sorry.”
The drive home was suffocating. My mind raced.
When we arrived at Dad’s house, I confronted him. “We went to the orphanage,” I said, my voice shaking. “They have no record of me. Why would they say that?”
Dad’s face went pale. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he sighed heavily. “Come in.”
In the living room, he sank into his chair, rubbing his temples. “I knew this day would come,” he muttered.
“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “Why did you lie to me?”
“You weren’t adopted,” he said quietly. “You’re your mother’s child… but not mine. She had an affair.”
The words shattered everything.
“She cheated on me,” he continued bitterly. “When she got pregnant, she begged me to stay. I agreed, but I couldn’t look at you without seeing what she did to me. So I made up the adoption story.”
My hands trembled. “You lied to me for thirty years because you couldn’t handle your pain?”
He nodded. “I was angry. Hurt. I thought… if you believed you weren’t mine, it would be easier for me. I’m sorry.”
“You made me feel like I didn’t belong my entire life—for something that wasn’t even my fault.”
Tears blurred my vision as I stood. “I can’t do this right now,” I said, turning to Matt. “Let’s go.”
As we walked out the door, Dad’s voice followed, broken and regretful: “I’m sorry!”
But I didn’t look back. The person I thought I was had been a lie, and I needed to figure out who I truly was—on my own terms.