I was 20 when I gave up my newborn daughter. I was seriously ill, abandoned by her father, broke, and terrified I wouldn’t survive. Loving her meant admitting I couldn’t protect her, so I left her at an orphanage—a choice that has haunted me ever since.
Five years later, against all odds, I recovered and tried to get her back. I was told she’d already been adopted. I chose not to fight, believing the kindest thing was to stay away and let her have the stable life I couldn’t give.
Life moved on. I married, had two children, and built a quiet, full life—but I never stopped thinking about the daughter I lost.
Yesterday, 28 years later, someone knocked on my door.
A woman stood there, nervous but determined, and said, “First of all, I’m your daughter.”
Her name was Amy. She brought her birth certificate, a photo of me holding her as a newborn, and a lifetime of unanswered questions. She told me about her adoptive parents, her losses, and the ache that led her to find me—not for blame, but for truth.
I told her I never stopped loving her. She said she believed me.
We didn’t fix everything in one morning, but when she left, it wasn’t an ending. For the first time in decades, it was a beginning.
And I learned this: silence meant to protect can still wound, and love doesn’t expire just because time passes. When the past finally knocks, the bravest thing you can do is open the door.