I was adopted 17 years ago.
Growing up, I always knew I was adopted. My parents never hid it from me—it was simply a fact of my life, like my love for vanilla ice cream, brushing horses, or the way I 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, and never made me feel like anything less than their daughter.
They packed my lunches, helped with my homework, and held me when I cried over my first heartbreak. My mom and I cooked dinner together every single day, no matter if I was preparing for exams or busy with a project.
It was home. I was home.
I never once questioned where I came from.
