I always knew I was adopted—my dad told me when I was three. My mom passed away six months later, and I barely remember her, just her smile. After that, it was just me and Dad. But growing up wasn’t easy. He often reminded me I wasn’t his, saying things like, “Maybe you got that from your real parents,” and “You’re lucky I even kept you.” He even told neighbors I was adopted when I was six, and by the next day, I was the “orphan girl” at school.
For years, I believed I was abandoned. Then, my fiancé Matt encouraged me to dig into my past. We visited the orphanage my dad said I came from, but they had no record of me. I confronted Dad, and he admitted, “You’re my biological daughter.” He explained that after my mom died, he couldn’t cope and convinced himself that treating me like I wasn’t his daughter would make things easier.
Tears filled my eyes as I realized he made me feel unwanted and abandoned for years. He confessed it was selfish, done out of guilt. Matt reminded me I didn’t have to forgive him, but I deserved the truth.
I was left standing, feeling a mix of anger, betrayal, and painful relief. For the first time, I wasn’t an orphan. I told Dad I needed time and walked away, Matt by my side. I didn’t know if I’d ever forgive him, but at least I finally knew the truth. That was a start.
