She had been found alone on a cold December night, wrapped in a thin blanket. No explanation. No story. Just a quiet baby with watchful eyes that seemed far older than her tiny body.
From that moment on, I was the mother of two daughters.
They grew up together, but they were never alike.
Stephanie was bold and fearless. She climbed trees, spoke her mind, and filled every room she entered.
Ruth was gentle and thoughtful. She noticed everything. She asked questions that lingered long after bedtime.
But my love never divided itself.
I packed the same lunches.
I kissed the same scraped knees.
I sat through school plays, meetings, and late-night conversations where worries felt impossibly large.
I believed our family was strong.
Unshakable.
Seventeen years passed.
The night before Ruth’s prom, I stood in her doorway with my phone in hand, ready to take photos like I had years earlier with Stephanie.
Ruth sat on the edge of her bed in her dress, her shoulders tense.
“Mom,” she said quietly, “you’re not coming to my prom.”
I laughed at first, confused.
But when she finally looked at me, her eyes were red and her jaw tight.
“No,” she said. “You’re not. And after prom, I’m leaving.”
The word hit me harder than anything I had ever heard.
Leaving.
She told me Stephanie had shared the truth.
That I was not her real mother.
That I had only adopted her because of a promise.
That she had never truly been chosen.
I felt my heart break in a way I did not know was possible.
I tried to explain.
