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.
At first, he tried. He made peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. He let me watch cartoons on Saturday mornings. But as I grew older, things changed.
When I was six, I struggled to tie my shoes. Frustrated, I burst into tears. My dad sighed deeply and muttered, “Maybe you got that stubbornness from your real parents.”
It became his go-to excuse. Any mistake I made, any flaw I had—he blamed it on the mysterious people who had “given me up.”
By the time I was a teenager, I stopped asking questions. The one time I dared to ask for my adoption papers, he handed me a single sheet of paper—a certificate with my name, a date, and a seal.
“See? Proof,” he said.
I stared at it, sensing something was missing, but I had no reason to doubt him. Why would I?
Then I met Matt.
He saw through me in a way no one else had. “You don’t talk about your family much,” he remarked one night.
I shrugged. “There’s not much to say.”
But there was. So much that I had buried deep inside—those annual visits to the orphanage on my birthday, where my dad would point to the children and remind me how lucky I was. The way he spoke of my “real parents” like I was a burden he had taken on. The whispers from my classmates, asking if I would ever be “sent back.”
“Have you ever looked into your past?” Matt asked one evening.
“No. My dad told me everything.”
“Are you sure?”
That question lingered in my mind.
So, for the first time in my life, I decided to uncover the truth.
Matt and I drove to the orphanage where my dad said I had been adopted. My hands trembled as we entered. An older woman greeted us with a warm smile and asked how she could help.
“I was adopted from here when I was three,” I explained, my voice shaky. “I’d like to find out more about my birth parents.”
She nodded and began typing into her computer. I held my breath as the seconds stretched into minutes. Her frown deepened. She checked again. Then, she pulled out an old binder, flipping through the pages.
Finally, she looked up, her expression unreadable.
“I’m sorry,” she said slowly. “We have no record of you here.”
My heart dropped. “What?”
“Are you sure this is the right orphanage?”
“Yes!” I insisted, my voice rising. “This is the place. My dad took me here every year. He showed me this place!”
She shook her head. “If you had been here, we would have records. But there’s nothing. I’m so sorry.”
I felt as if the ground had vanished beneath me.
The drive home was quiet. Matt kept glancing at me, his concern clear, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak.
“Are you okay?” he finally asked.
I stared out the window. “No. I need answers.”
And I knew exactly where to find them.
When we arrived at my dad’s house, I didn’t hesitate. I marched up the steps and knocked on the door.
He opened it, surprise on his face. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
“I went to the orphanage,” I said, my voice trembling with anger. “They have no record of me. Why would they say that?”
For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a long, tired sigh, he stepped aside. “Come in.”
I barely waited for him to sit before I demanded, “Tell me the truth. Now.”
He rubbed his face, looking suddenly older. “I knew this day would come.”
“What are you talking about?” I snapped. “Why did you lie to me?”
He was silent for what felt like an eternity, then finally spoke in a voice so soft I almost didn’t hear him. “You weren’t adopted. You’re your mother’s child… but not mine.”
My heart stopped. “What?”
“She had an affair,” he admitted 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.”
The room spun. “You… lied to me for my whole life?”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I was angry. I thought… maybe if you believed you weren’t mine, it would be easier for me to accept. Maybe I wouldn’t hate her so much. It was stupid. I’m sorry.”
I was shaking. “You faked the adoption papers?”
“Yes.”
The weight of betrayal was suffocating. The teasing, the comments, the orphanage visits—it was never about me. It was about him. His pain. His resentment.
I stood up, my legs unsteady beneath me. “I can’t do this,” I whispered. “I was just a kid. I didn’t deserve this.”
“I know,” he said, his voice breaking. “I know I failed you.”
Matt stood as well, his jaw tight as he glared at my father. “Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”
As we walked to the door, my dad’s voice called after me. “I’m sorry! I really am!”
But I didn’t turn around.
For the first time in my life, I was walking away from the past. And this time, I wasn’t looking back.