Growing up, I always knew I was adopted. My parents never hid it from me. It was just a fact, like my love for vanilla ice cream, brushing horses, or how I always needed a nightlight until I was twelve.

They told me I was chosen. That they had waited for years, hoping for a child, and when they found me, they loved me instantly. And, of course, I believed them.

I had a good life. A warm home. Parents who never missed a soccer game, never forgot my birthday, never made me feel like anything less than their daughter.

They packed my school lunches, helped me with homework, and held me when I cried over my first heartbreak. And my mom and I used to cook dinner together every single day. It didn’t matter whether I was prepping for exams or whether I had a project.

It was… home. I was home.

I never once questioned where I came from.

But in the weeks leading up to my 18th birthday, something strange started happening.

It started with emails.

The first one came from an address I didn’t recognize.

Happy early birthday, Emma. I’ve been thinking about you. I’d love to talk.

No name. No context. So, I ignored it.

Then came the Facebook friend request from a profile with no picture. The name was Sarah W. The request sat in my inbox, unanswered.

And then, the morning of my birthday, the knock came.

I almost didn’t answer. My parents were in the kitchen, making my special birthday breakfast, pancakes and bacon, just like every year. But something about the sound of that knock made my stomach clench.

I didn’t know why, but I felt like a bad omen was about to drop into our lives.

“You’ll get the door, honey?” Mom asked while she took over the bacon.

“Sure, Mom,” I said, wiping my hands.

When I opened the door, I just knew that everything was about to change.

A woman stood on the porch, clutching the railing like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her blonde hair hung in messy waves, dark circles shadowing her sunken eyes. Her gaze landed on me, and she sucked in a sharp breath, like she had been holding it for years.

“Emma?” she gasped.

“Yeah… who are you?” I hesitated.

Her throat bobbed, her lower lip trembled. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said the words that truly changed everything, just as I’d felt seconds before.

“I’m your mother.”

The floor beneath me felt unsteady.

“Your real mother,” she added, stepping closer.

A cold, twisting sensation curled in my stomach.

No. Nope. No way.

This had to be a mistake.

“I know this is a shock,” she said, her voice raw and uneven. “But please, Emma. Please listen to me.”

I should have shut the door then. I should have called for my parents to deal with this person. But I didn’t. I couldn’t move.

Because the look in her eyes… it wasn’t just desperation. It was sorrow. Regret. And a kind of longing that seeped into my bones just by standing across from her.

“Your adoptive parents… they lied to you,” she said, wiping her forehead with the back of her palm.

My entire body went rigid.

“They tricked me, Emma. And then they stole you from me!” she said, grabbing my hands, her grip trembling.

“What on earth are you talking about?” I asked.

Tears welled in her eyes as she pulled a folder from her bag, shoving a stack of papers into my hands.

I glanced down, not knowing what to expect.

Birth records. My actual birth records.

And there, beneath a large block of text, was a signature.

Her name.

“I never wanted to give you up, Emmie,” she whispered. “That’s what I used to call you when you were in my belly. I was young and scared, but they convinced me I wasn’t good enough. That you’d be better off without me. They manipulated me, and I’ve regretted it every day since.”

I looked back at the papers. My hands shook. My brain felt frozen.

Emmie?

Could it be true?

Had my parents, my parents, lied to me? All my life?

She squeezed my hands tighter.

“Just give me a chance, love. Come with me. Let me show you the life you were meant to have.”

I should have said no. I should have slammed the door in her face.