I always knew I was adopted. My parents never hid it. It was just a piece of me, like loving mint ice cream or staying up late to read until I was 12.
They said I was their dream come true. They’d prayed for a child, and when they found me, I was their world. I felt their love every day.
My life was warm. A safe home, parents who came to my choir concerts, and nights helping Mom make spaghetti. They were my everything.
They guided me through school, held me after my first fight with a friend, and never let me feel alone. I never questioned my roots.
But before my 18th birthday, weird things started. An email came. “Happy birthday soon, Mia. I want to talk.” No name, no details.
I ignored it. Then, a blank profile, “Karen S.,” sent a friend request on Facebook. I didn’t accept it, feeling uneasy.
On my birthday, a knock came. Mom was baking muffins, Dad was setting the table. The sound felt wrong, like bad news.
“Mia, can you get it?” Mom asked. I went, my heart uneasy. When I opened the door, my life changed forever.
A woman stood there, holding the porch rail tightly. Her brown hair was messy, her eyes tired. She gasped. “Mia?” she said.
“Who are you?” I asked, tense. Her voice broke. “I’m your birth mom.” My stomach dropped. This wasn’t real.
“I know it’s a shock,” she said, moving closer. “But please, listen.” Her eyes were desperate, full of sorrow and need.
I should’ve shut the door. But her look stopped me. It wasn’t just want—it was pain, like she’d been broken for years.
“Your parents lied,” she said, her voice shaky. “They took you from me.” She grabbed my hands, her fingers trembling.
“What do you mean?” I asked, stunned. She handed me papers—birth records. Her name, Karen Sims, was written there.
“I didn’t want to give you up,” she said, crying. “I was young, scared. They said I wasn’t enough. I’ve regretted it always.”
My hands shook as I looked at the papers. Could my parents, the ones I trusted, have hidden this from me?
“Come with me,” she said. “Let me show you our life.” I wanted to say no, but I needed to know the truth.
I said I’d meet her at a diner. Then I faced my parents. They were smiling, ready for my birthday breakfast.
“Something happened,” I said. Mom’s face fell. Dad stopped moving. “A woman came,” I said. “She says she’s my birth mom.”
The air grew heavy. Mom’s hand clenched the table. Dad’s face turned cold. “She said you stole me,” I said.
Mom’s voice broke. “That’s not true, Mia,” she said. Dad nodded. “She’s lying to you.” I shook my head, confused.
“How do you know?” I asked. Mom’s eyes teared up. “We feared this day,” she said. “We didn’t expect it like this.”
“I want to know her,” I said. “She asked for a week.” Mom gasped. Dad’s jaw tightened. “A week?” he said.
“Please,” I said. “I need answers.” Mom cried softly. Dad spoke. “She left you, Mia. Don’t forget that.”
“I’ll call,” I promised. Mom sobbed. Dad nodded. “Make sure you do,” he said. I left, my heart heavy.
Karen’s house was a mansion. Shiny floors, huge chandeliers, a staircase like a movie. “This is yours,” she said, her voice warm.
Guilt hit me. Had my parents taken this from me? From her? I stayed for a week to find the truth.
The next day, a woman stopped me outside. “You’re Mia,” she said. “I’m Helen, Karen’s neighbor.” I nodded, cautious.
“Karen lied,” Helen said. My stomach sank. “What?” I asked. Helen’s face was firm. “She gave you up on purpose.”
“That’s not true,” I said, shaking. Helen didn’t waver. “I knew your grandfather. Karen partied, spent everything. You were a problem.”
I felt ill. “Why now?” I asked. Helen sighed. “Your grandfather died. He left you his fortune. It’s yours now.”
It clicked. Karen’s tears, her timing—it was about money, not me. I was her way to wealth, nothing more.
I grabbed my bag. Karen stood by the stairs, glaring. “You’re leaving?” she asked, her voice sharp.
“Yes,” I said. “You wanted my inheritance, not me.” She scoffed. “I’m your mother.” I stared. “You abandoned me.”
“I’m taking the money,” I said. “I’ll pay for college and spoil my parents. They loved me when you didn’t.”
She went silent. I walked out. When I got home, my parents were there. I ran to Mom’s arms, tears falling.
“You’re home,” she whispered, holding me. Dad hugged us. “Good to have you back, kiddo,” he said.
I didn’t need a big house or riches. I had my family—the ones who loved me, no matter what, always.
