I grew up in foster care with only one explanation about my past—that my mother had passed away and my disabled father couldn’t care for me. I was adopted by loving parents who became my real family, but questions about where I came from always lingered.
At 22, everything changed when I received a random Instagram message from a stranger claiming to be my sister. After a DNA test confirmed it, we met—and for the first time, I saw someone who looked just like me.
She told me our father, Richard, was alive.
A year later, she arranged for us to meet him. But just before I walked inside, she grabbed my arm and warned me: “If you go in there without knowing this… you’ll be in danger.”
Inside, I learned the truth.
My mother had died giving birth to me. My father, already disabled and grieving, struggled to cope. My grandmother stepped in, convinced him that giving me up was the best option—and even pressured my sister into staying silent in exchange for support.
He had written me letters over the years, but they were thrown away.
It was painful, messy, and overwhelming—but now I finally knew the truth.
And for the first time in my life, instead of being the child everyone made decisions for, I was the one choosing what happens next.