I always believed I had the perfect childhood, full of love and trust. But one peaceful evening at my parents’ house, everything changed. After dinner, I went to the attic to look through old photo albums. There, hidden in a dusty box, I found a sealed letter marked “For my daughter.”
Inside was a heartbreaking message from my birth mother, saying she was too young and scared to raise me but loved me deeply. Shaken, I rushed downstairs and demanded answers from my parents. With heavy hearts, they confessed — I was adopted.
The revelation shattered me. I left in tears, overwhelmed by betrayal and confusion. That night, I cried until I felt empty. The next morning, I began searching for my birth mother. Soon, I found her photo — Sarah, smiling outside a small-town diner.
I drove two hours just to see her, unsure what to say. At the diner, I sat silently, watching her move kindly among the customers. I returned a week later, unable to stay away. That time, I found the courage to speak.
After her shift, I approached and gave her the letter. She recognized it instantly. Tears welled in her eyes as she asked, “Can I hug you?”
We stood in the parking lot, holding each other, crying. Inside, over tea, she told me her story — how hard it was to let me go, and how she had never stopped thinking about me. I told her about my life and the parents who raised me with love.
“I was angry,” I said. “But they did love me.”
Sarah smiled through tears. “I’m grateful they raised you.”
That night, I texted my family: “Thank you for loving me. I’m coming home for breakfast.”
For the first time in days, I felt peace.