was four years old, after my birth parents died and Mom’s sister begged her to take me in.
Dad never treated me differently.
He taught me how to ride a bike.
He called me his miracle girl.
Every Christmas, he wrote my name on my stocking himself.
Mom never directly told me that I wasn’t really hers.
She didn’t have to.
She preferred smaller reminders.
“Your brothers inherited Dad’s eyes.”
“Family medical history is complicated with you.”
“You’re lucky we chose you.”
After Dad died, those little reminders stopped being
