I grew up in a foster family who did their best, but love is more than just warm meals and polite applause. It’s about knowing where you come from.
No one told me about my biological parents, leaving only a blank space in my records. I dreamed they were spies or rock stars—anything but not caring.
By 27, I had a stable office job, but soon I got sick. Then, at 30, I lost my nanny job. Just as I was struggling, I got a call: my father had passed away and left me his farm.
The farm was a mess, but the barn was immaculate. Inside, the animals greeted me like I belonged, and a dog seemed to wait for me.
As I settled in, my neighbor, Linda, began copying everything I did—from my painted fence to my mailbox. When I confronted her, she revealed she was my mother, living near my father. She had always known about me but struggled to connect.
She had written me letters every year, full of love and care. I cried, realizing I wasn’t forgotten.
A few days later, Linda left a note: “Saved the milk in my fridge. Love, Mom.”
I realized that love isn’t always loud or obvious. I smiled, offered to teach her yoga, and for the first time, didn’t feel alone.
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