Every weekend, dinner at my parents’ house felt comforting—filled with laughter, the smell of Mom’s cooking, and old memories. That night, Mom mentioned photo albums in the attic, so after dinner, I went to look.
While flipping through baby pictures, I found a sealed envelope labeled “For my daughter.” Inside was a heartbreaking letter from my birth mother, explaining why she had to give me up. Shocked and trembling, I confronted my parents.
They admitted the truth: I was adopted. My birth mother had been only 16. I felt betrayed, devastated—but I needed answers.
After a restless night, I searched online and found her—Sarah—working at a diner two hours away. I drove there, too scared to tell her who I was. I watched, sat at a table, and left without saying much.
A week later, I went back. When she recognized me, something in her softened. That evening, I showed her the letter. She knew instantly. With tears in her eyes, she hugged me.
We talked—about the past, the fear, the love. She’d never stopped thinking of me. I told her about my adoptive parents, how they raised me with love despite the secret.
Before I left, I sent them a message:
“Thank you for loving me. I’m coming home for breakfast.”
And just like that, a part of me felt whole.
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