That evening felt peaceful, like every weekend dinner at my parents’ house. The smell of Mom’s cooking and soft music filled the air.
After dinner, Mom mentioned the photo albums in the attic. I decided to take a look. In the dusty boxes, I found a letter sealed with “For my daughter” written in shaky handwriting. My heart raced as I opened it, revealing a message from my birth mother, explaining she couldn’t keep me.
I ran downstairs, trembling, holding the letter out to my parents. They were silent. Then Dad said, “You’re not our biological daughter.” I froze.
Mom explained that I was adopted, just days old, and my birth mother had been too young to keep me. I was angry, feeling betrayed. I stormed out, determined to find my birth mother.
After some searching, I found her. I drove to a small diner and watched her. She seemed happy, her family in tow. I couldn’t approach her, but I kept coming back. Finally, after seeing her with a man and a child, I spoke to her.
When I handed her the letter, she immediately understood. We hugged, and she invited me inside to talk. She shared her story, and we both cried. I realized my parents had loved me, despite their silence.
That night, I sent a message to my family: “Thank you for raising me. I’m coming home for breakfast tomorrow.” Something inside me finally felt at peace.
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