On our wedding night, as my husband Daniel and I were finally alone, the door slammed open, and his mother burst in, frantic. “STOP!” she cried.
I grew up in a shelter, abandoned as a baby with no explanation. I never knew my parents. I built my life through hard work and determination, earning a college scholarship. Then I met Daniel, two years younger, always smiling, and soon he had my walls down. Six months later, he proposed. I hesitated but said yes, finally trusting someone.
The wedding was beautiful, and after, Daniel and I settled into our hotel room. As we relaxed, Daniel asked about kids, but I hesitated. I had never known what kind of mother I’d be without parents. Daniel reassured me, “You’d be amazing.”
Then the door burst open.
Margaret, Daniel’s mother, stood trembling. “Stop!” she screamed, and her words shattered my world. “You might be brother and sister.”
Margaret confessed she had abandoned her baby 22 years ago at a shelter—the same one where I was left. She hadn’t told anyone, not even her family, but Mrs. Reynolds had revealed the truth. My mind spun. Was this true?
Daniel and I were left reeling, unsure how to process the revelation. Margaret insisted we get a DNA test. The next day, in a sterile clinic, the doctor confirmed: we were not related.
Relief flooded me, but the nightmare wasn’t over. Margaret had a daughter out there somewhere—another girl abandoned like me. Margaret vowed to find her, and Daniel and I promised to help.
Margaret had lost a daughter once; she wasn’t going to lose her again.