For three decades, I believed I was adopted, a child abandoned by parents who couldn’t care for me. But a visit to the orphanage where I supposedly grew up changed everything. The truth my father had fed me for so long turned out to be nothing more than a web of deceit.
My earliest memories are of my father telling me about my adoption. I was just three years old, sitting on the couch, surrounded by colorful blocks. His smile seemed forced, and his words were laced with an underlying tension. “Your real parents couldn’t take care of you,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “So your mom and I adopted you to give you a better life.”
As I grew older, the story remained the same, but the implications changed. My father would often remark that my struggles in school or my stubbornness were traits inherited from my “real parents.” The message was clear: I was flawed, and it was their fault. The other kids at school picked up on this, teasing me mercilessly about my adoption.
The annual visits to the orphanage on my birthday only added to my pain. My father would point to the children playing in the yard, saying, “See how lucky you are? They don’t have anyone.” But all I felt was a deep sense of isolation.
When I turned 16, I asked my father about my adoption, and he showed me a certificate with my name and a date. But something about it felt off, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the story.
Years later, I met Matt, and he saw through my defenses. Over time, I opened up to him about my adoption, the teasing, and the orphanage visits. He listened attentively, his expression empathetic. “Have you ever thought about looking into your past?” he asked gently. I hesitated, unsure if I was ready to face the truth.
The orphanage visit was a turning point. The woman behind the desk searched for my records, but came up empty-handed. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have any records of you here,” she said, her expression apologetic. My world began to crumble. My whole life, it seemed, was a lie.
The car ride home was heavy with silence. Matt’s hand was wrapped around mine, offering comfort. “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” he said firmly. “Let’s talk to your dad. He owes you the truth.”
When we confronted my father, he broke down, revealing a shocking truth. I wasn’t adopted; I was the product of an affair my mother had had. My father had fabricated the adoption story to cope with his pain and anger. The realization hit me like a punch, leaving me breathless and reeling.
The aftermath was a blur of emotions. I felt betrayed, hurt, and angry. My father apologized, but the damage was done. I knew I had to take care of myself, to move forward and find my own truth. As we walked out the door, my father called after me, “I’m sorry! I really am!” But I didn’t turn around. I was too busy trying to make sense of the lies that had defined my life for so long.
