Unraveling the Lie
For thirty years, I believed I was adopted—abandoned by parents who couldn’t keep me. That belief shaped my entire identity. But a trip to the orphanage unraveled everything, revealing a truth far more painful than I ever imagined.
The first time Dad told me I was adopted, I was only three. We sat on the couch, my tower of blocks standing tall nearby. I clutched my stuffed rabbit as he gently rested a hand on my shoulder.
“Sweetheart,” he began, his voice soft but heavy. “Your real parents couldn’t take care of you. So Mom and I adopted you to give you a better life.”
“Real parents?” I asked, tilting my head in confusion.
“Yes,” he said, managing a thin smile. “But they loved you very much, even if they couldn’t keep you.”
“Are you my daddy now?” I asked.
“That’s right,” he replied, pulling me into a hug. For a moment, I felt secure, like I truly belonged.
Six months later, Mom died in a car accident. I remember her soft smile, the warmth of her love. After that, it was just Dad and me.
At first, Dad tried hard. He made my favorite sandwiches and let me watch cartoons. But as I grew older, he became less patient.
By the time I was six, Dad’s words began to hurt.
One day, struggling to tie my shoes, I burst into tears. Instead of helping, he muttered, “Maybe you got that stubbornness from your real parents.”
“Stubborn?” I asked, confused.
“Just figure it out,” he snapped, walking away.
Whenever I made a mistake, he blamed my “real parents.” If I failed a math test or spilled juice, it wasn’t because I was a kid—it was because of the people who had “abandoned” me.
On my sixth birthday, Dad threw a barbecue. I was excited to show off my new bike to the neighborhood kids. But as adults chatted, Dad raised his glass and said, “You know, we adopted her. Her real parents couldn’t handle the responsibility.”
The words hit me hard. Frozen, I trembled holding my plate.
A woman frowned. “Oh, how sad,” she said.
Dad nodded. “Yeah, but she’s lucky we took her in.”
The other kids heard. The next day at school, their whispers hurt more.
“Why didn’t your real parents want you?” a boy sneered.
“Are you gonna get sent back?” a girl giggled.
Running home crying, Dad shrugged. “Kids will be kids,” he said.
I never got over it.
Every birthday reminded me of my “luck.” Dad took me to the orphanage, pointing out kids. “See how lucky you are?” he’d say. “They don’t have anyone.”
By high school, I dreaded my birthday. Feeling unwanted weighed on me. I worked hard, trying to prove I was worth keeping, but deep down, I felt I never could be.
At sixteen, I finally asked Dad about my adoption.
“Can I see the papers?” I asked.
He returned with a single page—a certificate with my name and a seal. “There,” he said. “Proof.”
It looked real, but something felt wrong. Still, I didn’t press further.
Years later, I met Matt. “You don’t talk about your family much,” he observed one night.
“There’s not much to say,” I replied.
But Matt didn’t give up. When I told him about the adoption, teasing, and orphanage visits, he asked, “Have you thought about your past?”
“No. Dad told me everything.”
“What if there’s more?” he asked.
For the first time, I hesitated.
With Matt’s encouragement, we visited the orphanage. The small brick building had a worn charm, its faded playground still standing.
Inside, a kind woman welcomed us. “I’m trying to find information about my parents,” I explained.
She searched through records, then looked up. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “We have no record of you here.”
“What?” I whispered.
Matt asked, “Another orphanage?”
She shook her head. “We keep records. I’m so sorry.”
The drive home was suffocating. My mind raced.
Confronting Dad, I said, “The orphanage has no record of me. Why?”
Dad paled. “Come in.”
In the living room, he sank into his chair. “I knew this day would come.”
“What?” I demanded. “Why lie?”
“You’re not adopted,” he said. “You’re Mom’s child… but not mine. She had an affair.”
The words shattered everything.
“She cheated,” he said bitterly. “When she got pregnant, she begged me to stay. I agreed, but I couldn’t look at you without seeing her betrayal.”
“You lied for thirty years?” I trembled. “It wasn’t my fault.”
Tears blurred. “I can’t,” I said to Matt. “Let’s go.”
Dad called out, “I’m sorry!”
But I didn’t look back. The person I was had been a lie, and I needed to find who I truly was—on my terms.
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