I was adopted at birth.
My parents always said they chose me out of love.
Last month, I took a DNA test for fun.
The results showed I’m 100% related to someone 5 miles away.
When I knocked on their door, the woman who answered looked just like me.
Same eyes. Same dimples. Same nervous smile.
She froze.
I said my name.
She whispered mine back like it hurt to say.
Then she stepped outside, closed the door behind her.
Told me we couldn’t talk there.
Led me down the block, quiet.
Finally, she said, “I’m your mother.”
I couldn’t breathe.
She told me I wasn’t supposed to find her.
That my birth had been a secret.
That her family never knew I existed.
She’d been sixteen, scared, sent away to give birth alone.
Said she held me once.
And then they took me.
She begged her parents to let her keep me.
They told her no one would want a girl with a baby.
She cried every birthday, hoping I was okay.
I asked if she ever looked for me.
She said she used to type my name into search bars she made up in her head.
That she memorized the name she gave me, even if she knew it had probably changed.
I asked about the man who raised me—my real father.
She said she didn’t know who adopted me.
Didn’t even get to say goodbye.
We sat on a park bench.
I told her I had a good life.
That my parents had loved me well.
She cried again.
I didn’t know what to feel.
Grateful. Angry. Sad. Whole.
She asked if I hated her.
I said no.
I said I understood.
We’ve met three more times since then.
Quiet coffees. Long stares. Careful hugs.
We’re still strangers, but somehow… not.
She gave me life.
Someone else gave me a home.
Now, maybe, I get to have both.