For thirty years, I believed I was adopted—abandoned by parents who couldn’t keep me. That thought shaped who I was, who I believed I was. But everything changed when I went to the orphanage. The truth I uncovered was more painful than I ever expected.
I was three years old when my dad first told me that I was adopted. We were sitting together on the couch, my colorful blocks stacked high next to me. I was clutching my favorite stuffed rabbit, as always, when my dad rested his hand gently on my shoulder.
“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice soft but serious. “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, confused.
“Yes,” he said, smiling a little. “But they loved you very much, even if they couldn’t keep you.”
The word “love” made me feel safe, even though I didn’t fully understand it. “So you’re my daddy now?” I asked.
“That’s right,” he replied, pulling me into a hug. For a moment, I felt like I truly belonged, like everything was right.
But six months later, my world changed again. My mom died in a car accident. I couldn’t remember much about her, except for the warmth of her smile. After that, it was just me and Dad.
At first, he tried his best to be a good father. He made my favorite peanut butter sandwiches and let me watch cartoons on Saturdays. But as I grew older, things changed. His patience wore thin.
By the time I was six, his words began to hurt.
One day, I was struggling to tie my shoes and started to cry. Instead of helping, he muttered, “Maybe you got that stubbornness from your real parents.”
“Stubborn?” I asked, feeling confused.
“Just figure it out,” he snapped, walking away.
I wasn’t just a kid making mistakes anymore; I was the product of “real parents” who had abandoned me. Every time something went wrong, my dad blamed it on them. 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 “couldn’t keep me.”
On my sixth birthday, Dad threw a barbecue. I was excited because I had just gotten a new bike, and I couldn’t wait to show it off to the other kids. But as the adults talked, Dad raised his glass and casually said, “You know, we adopted her. Her real parents couldn’t handle the responsibility.”
The words hit me like a slap in the face. I froze, holding my plate of chips in trembling hands.
A woman looked at me with pity. “Oh, how sad,” she said softly.
Dad nodded, unfazed. “Yeah, but she’s lucky we took her in.”
I felt my heart sink. The other kids overheard. The next day at school, the whispers began.
“Why didn’t your real parents want you?” one boy sneered.
“Are you gonna get sent back?” a girl giggled.
I ran home crying, but when I told Dad, he just shrugged. “Kids will be kids. You’ll get over it.”
I never did.
Every year, for my birthday, Dad would take me to the local orphanage and point out the kids playing outside. “See how lucky you are?” he would say. “They don’t have anyone.”
By the time I hit high school, I dreaded my birthday. The weight of being unwanted hung over me. I worked hard to prove I was worth keeping, but deep down, I always felt like I wasn’t.
When I was sixteen, I finally found the courage to ask Dad about my adoption.
“Can I see the papers?” I asked quietly, unsure of how he’d react.
He left the room and came back with a single page—an official-looking certificate with my name on it, stamped with a big seal. “There,” he said, tapping it with his finger. “Proof.”
It looked real, but something about it felt off. Still, I didn’t press it further.
Years passed, and I met Matt. He was different from anyone I’d ever met. He could see right through my guarded walls.
“You don’t talk about your family much,” he said one night.
“There’s not much to say,” I replied, my voice flat.
But Matt didn’t give up. When I told him about my adoption, the teasing at school, and the visits to the orphanage, 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. Maybe there was something I didn’t know. With Matt’s encouragement, we decided to visit the orphanage where I was supposedly adopted. The building was small and old, but it still had charm. The playground outside was faded, but strong, like it had stood the test of time.
Inside, a kind woman at the front desk greeted us. “I’m trying to find information about my biological parents,” I said.
She asked for my name and adoption details, then started searching through records. The sound of the keyboard clicking was the only noise in the room.
Minutes passed. She frowned deeper with each search, flipping through a thick binder. Finally, she looked up at us, her face full of regret.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “We have no record of you here.”
“What?” I whispered, my stomach twisting in disbelief. “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? Maybe you were adopted from another place?”
She shook her head. “We keep meticulous records. If you were here, we would know. I’m so sorry.”
The drive home was suffocating. My mind raced with confusion and disbelief.
When we got to Dad’s house, I confronted him immediately. “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. He stayed silent for a long time before letting out a heavy sigh. “Come in,” he said quietly.
We sat in the living room. Dad sank into his chair and rubbed his temples, like he was trying to hold it all together. “I knew this day would come,” he muttered, as if he was preparing for something.
“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “Why did you lie to me?”
He let out a bitter laugh. “You weren’t adopted,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re your mother’s child… but not mine. She had an affair.”
The words felt like they shattered my entire world.
“She cheated on me,” Dad continued, his voice full of pain. “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.”
I stood there, my hands trembling. “You lied to me for thirty years because you couldn’t handle your pain?”
He nodded, his eyes dark with regret. “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, my heart heavy. “I can’t do this right now,” I said, turning to Matt. “Let’s go.”
As we left the house, Dad’s voice called out, broken and regretful: “I’m sorry!”
But I didn’t look back. Everything I thought I knew about myself was a lie. I needed to figure out who I truly was—on my own terms.
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