I was five years old when my mother left me at an orphanage. My memories from that day are sharp in strange, painful ways. I remember the smell of disinfectant and boiled cabbage.
I remember the linoleum floor, cold through the thin soles of my shoes. And I remember the plastic grocery bag—translucent, crinkled—stuffed with my dirty clothes. Socks turned inside out.
A sweater with a missing button. Everything I owned, tied at the top like trash. I remember calling her name.
“Mama?”
She didn’t turn around. I stayed there until a woman with kind eyes crouched down and said it was time to come inside. I kept watching the door long after it closed, convinced my mother would burst back in, breathless, apologizing, saying she’d made a mistake.
She never did. I was adopted once. A couple who smiled too much at first and then sighed too often later.
I cried at night. I asked too many questions. I wet the bed.
After a year, they returned me with a single word written on the paperwork: inconvenient. That word followed me for a long time, even after I grew up. But I did grow up.
I learned how to keep my head down and my heart guarded. I studied, worked, paid bills. I built a life that looked ordinary from the outside—job, small apartment, routines that kept me steady.
I told myself I didn’t carry grudges. At least, not the kind people could see. I became a mother myself.
And when I held my daughter for the first time, I promised her something silently, fiercely: I will never leave you wondering if you are wanted. Years passed. Life stayed busy, sometimes exhausting, sometimes kind.
Then one night, everything shifted. I came home late from work, heels aching, mind already drifting toward sleep. I unlocked the door, stepped inside, flipped on the light—and nearly fainted.
My daughter was standing in the living room, arms wrapped tightly around a young woman I had never seen before. They were laughing softly, the kind of laughter that comes from familiarity, not politeness. Every instinct in me screamed that something was wrong.
“Who is this?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant. The woman froze. Slowly, she turned around.
I recognized her instantly. Jerry. My sister.
While our mother abandoned me, she kept Jerry. Jerry had been everything I wasn’t supposed to be—beautiful, delicate, full of promise. Our mother had plans for her.
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