My sister adopted a little girl — six months later, she came to my door with a DNA test and said, “This child isn’t ours.”

One rainy night, my sister Megan arrived at my door, soaked and trembling, holding a little girl’s hand — Ava’s — and DNA results. “She’s yours,” Megan whispered.

I’d given my baby up at twenty-two, thinking I was saving her. But the adoptive parents lost custody, and Ava had ended up in foster care — where Megan unknowingly adopted her.

Telling my husband Lewis was terrifying, but he said, “Then let’s do something good with this chance.” Months of legal battles later, a judge signed the papers, and Ava became mine.

At first, she was shy, calling us by our first names. Then one evening, I told her the truth — that I was her mother. She hugged me and whispered, “I knew you’d come back, Mommy.”

Now our home is full of love, laughter, and second chances. I’ll never waste this one.