I grew up knowing I was adopted, but I never expected my past to confront me face-to-face. What should’ve been a night of celebration became the moment everything changed.
I’m 16 years old, and I’ve known for as long as I can remember that I was adopted. My foster parents, the ones I’ve always just called Mom and Dad, never kept it from me.
But then, on the day of my prom, my biological mother tried to lure me away from them.
From the moment I could understand, my adoptive parents told me I was their little girl, and with them, I always felt warmth and love.
They used to say I was their “chosen girl,” that out of everyone in the world, they picked me.
They told me that another woman gave me life, but they were the ones who gave me everything else that mattered.
I grew up in a modest neighborhood where people fixed their own fences and borrowed sugar from each other.
My dad, Tom, is a mechanic who comes home with grease under his nails and a smile like he’s just built a rocket ship. My mom, Linda, does sewing and clothing alterations from home.
They’ve never had much money, but they’ve always given me everything they could.
We never had fancy vacations, but we had weekend camping trips in our rusty minivan. We’d share burnt marshmallows while Dad played his guitar under the stars.
My clothes were mostly hand-me-downs from my cousins or stuff Mom reworked, but they always fit better than anything store-bought.
I had a family that showed up for every birthday, school play, and every scraped knee.
To me, that was everything.
I’ve always felt lucky, loved, and safe.
Then the senior prom came.
Every girl at school was freaking out about what they’d wear. Some flaunted the designer dresses they’d wear and how their hair would get done at the salon. I knew we couldn’t afford any of that, and honestly, I didn’t even expect a new dress.
But Mom surprised me.
She spent weeks sewing a dress just for me in the dining room, working late into the night, hunched over her old machine.
I’d fall asleep to the sound of her humming as she worked.
When she finally let me try it on, I gasped.
It was purple, soft, with glitter that shimmered under the light. At the waist, she’d hand-stitched tiny embroidered daisies, just like the ones I used to pick from our backyard when I was little.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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