“You didn’t lose everything,” I told her. “We found each other.”
Avery grew into a clever, strong-willed, funny kid. She inherited my sarcasm and her biological mother’s eyes—deep brown and warm, the only detail I knew from a single photo in an old hospital file. She loved drawing. Hated math. Teared up at animal rescue commercials and pretended she didn’t.
I didn’t date much. My life already felt complete. But last year, I met Marisa at work. She was composed, confident, sharp-witted. She liked that I prepared meals for Avery during night shifts. Avery was reserved but polite—which, for a teenager, meant approval.
After eight months, I bought an engagement ring.
Then one evening, Marisa came over acting strangely.
She didn’t sit down. Didn’t remove her coat. She simply shoved her phone toward me and said, “Your daughter is hiding something horrible. Look.”
My mouth went dry as the screen filled with messages.
Screenshots. Accusations. A name I didn’t recognize. Messages written in all caps, claiming Avery was lying about her identity—that she had “stolen a life” and manipulated me.
The room seemed to tilt.
“What is this?” I asked.
Marisa folded her arms. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I investigated. She’s been talking to this woman behind your back.”
I didn’t shout. I didn’t argue. I walked down the hall and knocked on Avery’s door.
She opened it immediately, her eyes already red.
“I was going to tell you,” she said. “I promise.”
