I never knew where I came from.
For as long as I can remember, I was raised by foster parents who eventually adopted me. They gave me everything — love, support, a home. But there was always a hole in my heart that only one person could fill.
The woman who left me behind.
One evening, just before my 27th birthday, I got a message on Facebook.
It was her.
“Hi, it’s your mom.”
“I’ve been looking for you for years.”
I stared at the screen for what felt like hours.
Anger? Yes.
Curiosity? Even more.
So I replied.
We talked for days — slowly, carefully. She explained how she had struggled with addiction, poverty, and isolation when she left me at just a few weeks old. That she didn’t abandon me out of hate — but out of desperation.
“I thought someone better would take care of you,” she wrote once.
“I prayed they did.”
And honestly? Someone did.
My adoptive parents were amazing. Still are. But even the best life can leave room for questions. For identity. For healing.
Eventually, we met in person.
She showed up at my door with a small box and tears in her eyes.
Inside was a letter. A tiny blanket. And a silver locket engraved with my name — the only thing she kept from the day she left me behind.
We sat across from each other — not strangers. Not enemies.
Just two women trying to understand each other.
And over time, we did.
Because sometimes, forgiveness isn’t about forgetting.
It’s about facing the past together — not alone.