Hey everyone, I’ve been sitting at my computer for hours, hovering over the decision to share this. I’ve never been one for public confessions, but something happened this week that turned my world upside down, and I feel like I need to get it out. I’m hoping that by sharing my story, I might find some clarity or maybe even help someone else who’s been living in a similar way.
It all started with a blue envelope, a piece of the past I never knew was waiting for me. I found it in the attic while sorting through my late mother’s belongings. If you’ve ever had to go through a loved one’s things, you know how emotionally charged every object can feel – as if each one whispers a forgotten secret or shared memory.
This particular envelope caught my eye because it was tucked inside an old book, one my mother used to read to me when I was a kid. The book was ‘The Velveteen Rabbit’—a story that always made me cry when the rabbit became real. I never imagined it held something real from my own life.
Inside the envelope was a single piece of paper with a short letter in my mom’s handwriting. My heart clenched as I read it.
‘My dearest Lizzie,
If you’re reading this, I want you to know that you were always my little miracle. There was a truth I didn’t think I’d have the courage to share with you while I was around. I hope you understand that everything I did was out of love.
You were adopted. Your biological mother was a dear friend who couldn’t keep you, and I was fortunate enough to be chosen to love and raise you. You are mine in every way that matters, and nothing will ever change that.
Love forever, Mom.’
I can’t begin to describe the whirlwind of emotions I felt reading those words. I knew my family was small and tight-knit, but I never questioned my place in it. As I sat on the cold attic floor, clutching that letter, I felt a wave of anger, confusion, and heartbreak. Why hadn’t she told me? Why did she keep this from me for so long?
But as I sat there, another emotion descended like a soothing balm—an intense love and gratitude for the woman who gave me everything. A woman who, knowing the truth of my roots, chose to make me hers without reservation.
Over the next few days, I struggled with how to reconcile this new truth. My sense of identity felt fractured, like a puzzle with pieces that didn’t fit together anymore. Friends and family noticed I was withdrawn, and I made excuses about work and stress.
It wasn’t until I sat with my dad, sipping mint tea on the back porch, that another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
He looked at me, his eyes mirroring a sadness I hadn’t seen before. ‘Lizzie,’ he said gently, ‘Your mom was always worried about how you’d take it. She wanted to tell you… we both did, so many times. But she was afraid of losing you.’
His words were like a soft bell tolling in my mind, resonating with truths I hadn’t considered. I realized then that this wasn’t about deception; it was about a love so profound, it overshadowed the fear of what might come after the truth.
In that moment, I felt a new kind of closeness to my mom—one that transcended the boundaries of life and death. I understood her in a way I never could when she was alive. She was a mother, through and through, choosing to protect me from a truth that could potentially shatter our world as we knew it.
I’m still coming to terms with this newfound identity, but I’m learning to embrace both my biological and chosen heritage. I’ve even reached out to find my biological mother, and while it scares me to open that door, I feel compelled to know her story too.
If you’re reading this, thank you for listening. Life has a funny way of throwing us into the deep end, doesn’t it? But I’m learning to breathe underwater.
Much love,
Lizzie