I thought I was adopted for thirty years. My dad told me that he and my mum took care of me because my real parents weren’t able to. But everything was a lie.
From a young age, I didn’t understand why my dad would sometimes talk about my “real parents.” Like, “Maybe you got that stubbornness from your real parents.”
Until I met my partner, Matt. He was able to see through the walls I had put up and told me to take another step forward. We chose to go to the orphanage where my dad said I was adopted together.
The shelter was a small, plain house with brick walls that were starting to fade. I felt a lot of different things as we walked inside: anxious, interested, and a little scared. The woman behind the desk listened carefully as I told her what was going on, and then she started typing away on her computer.
But as the minutes went by, her face went from being helpful to being confused. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “but we don’t have any records of you here.” My world started to spin.
The ride home was quiet, and I could only hear my own thoughts. For so long, my dad must have been telling lies to me. In what else did he hide?
I was scared when we got to my dad’s house. But I knew I had to talk to him about it. “We went to the orphanage,” I said, but my voice was shaking. “They don’t have any records of me.” “Why would they say that?”
My dad’s face went blank, and he didn’t say anything for a moment. After a heavy sigh, he began to tell the truth. I wasn’t adopted; my mom had an affair and had me. He made up the story about being adopted to deal with his own anger and pain.
It hurt like someone punched me in the gut. I no longer knew who I was because my whole life had been a lie. But when I saw Matt, I knew I wasn’t by myself. We would find the truth together and put my broken identity back together.
