Jane’s fifth birthday started with frosting, banners, and her infectious laughter. After years of miscarriages, our adopted daughter—born with Down syndrome—had filled our home and hearts. Eade, my husband, adored her, attending every therapy session, cheering every small victory. The only shadow was his mother, Barb, who had once called Jane a mistake and vanished from our lives.
So when I opened the door that morning, stunned to see Barb standing there, she stepped inside and asked, “He never told you, did he?”
The truth hit like a storm: Jane wasn’t just a foster child we had chosen. She was Eade’s biological daughter from a brief relationship years before. He had arranged her adoption quietly, fearing the truth would shatter me, letting me believe we had simply been matched.
I looked at Jane lining up her stuffed animals for their “speeches” and realized one thing hadn’t changed: she was ours. Secrets or not, biology or not, she was the child we loved. Barb may have meant to hurt us, but the bond between Jane and me remained unshakable. Whatever came next for my marriage, Jane’s place in my heart was never in question.