At my sister’s pool party, she blocked Lily from swimming. “She’s not family by blood,” she said. I held my daughter close. “You did nothing wrong.”
Days later, I received a mysterious photo of me at seventeen holding a baby, with a note: “You were always meant to be a mother.” More letters followed, leading me to a chest in my childhood attic. Inside were adoption papers, photos, and the truth: I had a daughter before Lily—Isabel Rose—who had died two years ago.
Suddenly, it all made sense: the connection I felt to Lily, the letters, the feeling she was meant for me. I hugged Lily tighter than ever, realizing family isn’t blood—it’s love.
We moved to a new city, planted a rose bush in Isabel’s memory, and every spring Lily writes her a letter. One day, my sister texted: “I was wrong. I see it now.”
Family is who stays, who chooses you. Love isn’t who gave you life—it’s who gives you theirs.
