On Pam’s 20th birthday, I wanted everything perfect—cake, decorations, memories. Then a stranger appeared at the door: a woman, fragile and tearful, asking for Pam.
She claimed to be Pam’s birth mother.
Shocked, I let her in. Moments later, Pam arrived, joyful—until she saw the woman. The truth unraveled: Pam was adopted. The woman, Marlene, had been in a coma since a car accident while pregnant. She’d only recently woken up and searched for her daughter.
Pam ran.
The house felt empty without her.
Hours passed. Then she returned—eyes red, voice steady. She told Marlene she wanted to know her. And to me, she said, “You’re still my mom. That won’t change.”
We sat together, unsure but united.
“We don’t have to choose,” Pam said. “We can move forward—together.”
In that moment, love held us all.
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