As long as I remembered, my life was built on a story that did not alive completely.
I grew up, I was told that I was adopted – that my biological parents left me because they couldn’t take care of me and that my dad and his wife saved me. But deep down, something didn’t feel good.
I spent years condemning the questions away, I was convinced that if I had just accepted the story, I would find peace. Still, some of them always thought: What if the truth was something darker, something much more complicated than I could ever imagine?
Until the unexpected conversation with Matt, with someone who saw through me directly through me, I finally began to question everything I thought he knew about my past. I knew a little, the answers I was about to reveal would change my world upside down in a way I could never prepare for.
I lived under the three decades. I believed my parents left me and that I was adopted, unwelcome. But the truth I revealed when I visited an orphanage who was supposed to be my first home, shook me with my core – nothing could have prepared me for what I discovered.
I was only three years old when my father sat me on the couch, his hand hard on his shoulder and broke the news.
“Sweetheart, there’s something you should know,” he said gently.
I gripped my favorite stuffed rabbit, my wide eyes stuck on him.
“Your real parents couldn’t take care of you,” he explained quietly. “So we entered your mom. We have accepted you to give you a better life.”
Six months later my mother died in a tragic traffic accident. I barely remember it – only the flashes of tenderness and heat from her touch and voice. Then it was just my dad and I.
When I was six, I tried to tie my shoes and filled my frustration tears. My father sighed loudly and murmured, “Maybe you got the stubbornness of your real parents.”
As I became old, I stopped asking questions. One day my father handed me a single sheet of paper – a certificate with my name, date and seal. It was the only time I dared to ask for adoption.
“Do you see? Proof,” he said.
I stared at it and felt the feeling of something missing, but I had no reason to doubt it. Why would I?
Then I met Matt.
He saw through me in a way that no one else did. One night, he carelessly noted, “You never talk much about your family.”
I shrugged. “There’s nothing to say.”
But there was more and Matt knew it. He talked about my “real parents”, as if I were a burden that gave him. Whispering from classmates asks if I would ever be “sent back”.
“Have you ever looked into your past?” Matt asked one evening.
“No. My dad told me everything.”
“Are you sure?”
The question chased me and I couldn’t ignore it.
So I decided to find the truth for the first time in my life.
I went to the orphanage with Matt. When we walked in, my hands began to behave. The older woman warmly greeted us and asked how she could help.
“From there I was adopted when I was three,” I said, and my voice shakes. “I want to know more about my native parents.”
She nodded and started writing on her computer. After felt like eternity, she finally looked up and her expression unreadable.
“I’m sorry,” she said slowly, her voice calm but firm. “We don’t have any record about you.”
I felt as if the ground had moved under me. “What?”
“Are you sure it’s the true orphanage?” She asked gently.
“Yes!” I insisted that my voice of despair was rising. “This is a place. My dad took me here every year. He showed me this place!”
She shook her head. “If you were here, there would be records. But there’s nothing. I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t believe it. My whole life just fell apart in front of me.
The way back was quiet. Matt was constantly looking at me, fearing his faces, but I was too impressed to speak.
“Are you okay?” He finally asked.
I stared out the window. “No. I need answers.”
And I knew exactly where to find them.
Without hesitation, we retreated to my father’s house. I marched down the stairs and knocked on the door.
He opened it, his expression of surprise. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
“I went to the orphanage,” I said, hardly able to control my trembling voice. “They don’t have any record of me. Why would they say that?”
He did not move for a moment. Then, when he released a long, tired sigh, he retreated and said, “Come in.”
I barely let him sit before I demanded, “Tell me the truth. Now.”
Onul’s face and suddenly looked older. “I knew this day would come.”
“What are you talking about?” I gave up, my anger climbed. “Why did you lie to me?”
He was silent so long that it seemed that my heart rhythm was filling the room. In the end, in such a low voice, I almost didn’t hear him, he spoke words that broke everything I had ever known.
“You weren’t adopted. You’re your mother’s baby … but not mine.”
My heart stopped. “What?”
“She had a ratio,” he admitted, crawling into his voice. “When she became pregnant, she begged me to stay. I agreed but I couldn’t look at you without seeing what she did to me. So I invented an adoption story.”
The room turned. “You … have you lied to me all my life?”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I thought … Maybe if you believed you weren’t mine, it would be easier for me to accept. Maybe I would hate her so much. It was stupid. I’m sorry.”
I felt like I was choking. Visits of orphanage, teasing, comments – nothing has ever been about me. It was always about him – his pain, his resentment.
I got up, my legs weak. “I can’t do that,” I whispered. “I was just a child. I didn’t deserve that.”
“I know,” he said, and his voice broke. “I know I have failed you.”
Matt also stood up, his jaw clenched and stared at my father. “Well,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”
When we went to the door, my father’s voice called me. “I’m sorry! I really am!”
But I turned.
For the first time in my life I left the past. And this time I didn’t look.
Conclusion
When I left, I felt a strange combination of relief and devastation. The truth was exposed, but at the cost of everything I thought I knew about myself. For thirty years I lived under a false narrative – a story my father created to protect himself from the pain of betrayal. And in this process he unknowingly betrayed me in a way I could never imagine.
At that moment, I realized that the past had not kept the power to define me. The lies that once formed my identity were detached and left me with a raw, painful truth. But even if the truth hurts, it also free me. In the end, I could leave the shadows of my past and start building a future on the basis of my own conditions.
When we were Matt and I left my father behind, I knew I would never allow the weight to keep me back. I was deceived, yes, but I was no longer a victim. I got my story, my identity and my life. And while the way forward would be heavy, for the first time in my life I was ready to advance forward – excreted, intact and neapologically.