I was just five when my mother left me at an orphanage. The memory never faded—the disinfectant, the linoleum floor, the plastic bag with my worn clothes. I called after her, but she never returned.
I was adopted once, but returned after a year with one word stamped on the papers: inconvenient. That word haunted me for years. I learned to keep my heart guarded, to live quietly, to appear ordinary.
Then I became a mother. Holding my daughter, I silently promised she would never wonder if she was wanted.
Years later, after a long day, I came home to find my daughter hugging a young woman I didn’t know. My heart sank.
It was Jerry—my sister. While I had been abandoned, she had survived, growing strong despite our mother’s favoritism. She had quietly watched over me for years, even sending an anonymous donation that helped me buy my first home.
Now, seeing her with my daughter, I realized love can heal in unexpected ways. My sister had filled the void my mother left, offering care, patience, and unwavering support from afar.
Standing at our mother’s grave later, I felt no anger, no grief—only the quiet strength of a sister’s love, finally bridging a lifetime of absence.