Sixteen years old: terrified, ashamed, and convinced my life was over before it even began. My parents handled everything in silence. They signed the papers. They made decisions. I told myself it was the only way forward. I told myself she would have a better life without a scared teenage mother unable to give her anything.
The day I left the hospital without her, I felt something tear inside me, but I buried it. I had to. I was determined to survive. I was determined to forget.
And for years I did.
I went to college. I rebuilt my life piece by piece. I met Daniel: kind, brilliant, already a rising star in the medical field. He knew I had a “troubled past,” but I never revealed the details. When we got married, I promised myself that my old life would stay exactly where it was supposed to be: behind me.
We had two beautiful children: Ethan and Lily. Our home was welcoming, filled with laughter, school projects on the refrigerator, and Sunday mornings filled with pancakes. I told myself that this was the life I had earned. The life I deserved.
My daughter turned twenty-one this year.
I hadn’t seen her since the day she was born.
Last week he found me.
