For thirty years, I believed I was adopted. My father had convinced me that my biological parents had abandoned me, and he had rescued me from an orphanage. But it was all a lie – a fabrication designed to ease his own pain.
I remember the day my father first told me I was adopted. I was three years old, playing with blocks on the living room floor. He sat down beside me, his expression somber, and said, “Your real parents couldn’t take care of you, so we adopted you.” I didn’t understand what it meant, but the word “love” made me feel safe.
As I grew older, my father’s behavior became increasingly hurtful. He would make comments about my “real parents” and how I must have inherited certain traits from them. He even took me to visit an orphanage on my birthdays, pointing out the children and saying, “See how lucky you are?” The message was clear: I was unwanted, but he had graciously taken me in.
But the truth was far more complex. My father’s wife, my mother, had had an affair, and I was the result. My father had stayed in the marriage, but he couldn’t bear to look at me without seeing his wife’s infidelity. So he created a false narrative, one that would ease his own pain but cause me immense harm.
It wasn’t until I met my partner, Matt, that I began to question my father’s story. Matt saw through my walls and encouraged me to investigate my past. Together, we visited the orphanage, only to discover that they had no record of me. The truth began to unravel, and I was left reeling.
When I confronted my father, he broke down and confessed. He had fabricated the adoption story, creating fake papers and deceiving me for thirty years. His motivation was not to protect me but to salve his own wounds.
I was devastated, but I knew I had to take care of myself. I walked away from my father, determined to rebuild my life on a foundation of truth. It won’t be easy, but I’m ready to face the challenges ahead, armed with the knowledge of my true identity.
