The only genuine comfort I ever knew came from George, my adoptive father. His kindness made me feel seen—until he passed away when I was ten. After George died, the house became quiet and cold. I learned to shrink myself to avoid conflict, moving through life with the belief that I was a burden. Still, something inside me always wondered about the family I had lost before I was old enough to understand it.

Years later, my best friend encouraged me to search for answers. When the orphanage denied any record of me, I knew I had been living in the shadow of someone else’s truth. I confronted Margaret, expecting anger or denial. Instead, she broke down and finally told me everything. My biological mother was her older sister. She became pregnant at 34—the same week she was diagnosed with aggressive cancer. She refused treatment so I could be born, knowing it would cost her life. Before she passed, she begged Margaret to raise me.

That truth reshaped my entire story. Margaret’s coldness wasn’t because I was unwanted—it came from grief, guilt, and a promise she struggled to keep. We are still learning how to build something real, imperfect as it is. Now I visit my mother’s grave and speak to her as if she can hear me. I finally understand where I come from. I am the daughter of a woman who chose my life over her own—and that knowledge gave me the belonging I never had.