I’m sixteen years old, and I’ve always known I was adopted. My parents never hid it from me. They said I was their favorite daughter — and I never doubted it. I grew up with love in every corner of my life: bedtime stories whispered in soft voices, scraped knees kissed better, and a thousand photographs of school plays and messy birthday cakes.
Adoption, for me, was never a shadow. It was simply a fact, like my brown hair or my slightly crooked teeth.
But facts can grow heavy when you start asking questions.
Childhood Certainty
When I was little, adoption meant I was *chosen*. That was how Mom and Dad put it: “We picked you, out of everyone.” I’d imagine a magical store filled with babies in rows, and somehow they had walked in and spotted me, just me. That made me proud. At seven years old, when other kids teased each other about being “mistakes,” I secretly believed I was more wanted than they were.
At school, when teachers made us draw family trees, I’d carefully sketch mine — branches wide, roots steady. Sometimes a teacher would ask quietly, “Do you want to include your birth parents?” I’d shake my head. I didn’t know them. My family was the one who packed lunchboxes and attended parent-teacher conferences.
Still, there was always a blank spot in my heart. Not painful, not sharp — just an empty box on the page where I could have written something more.
The First Cracks
When I turned thirteen, the questions started knocking harder. We were learning genetics in biology class. Eye color, hair texture, dimples, widow’s peaks — all of it charted neatly on Punnett squares.
My friend Kira said, “I got my blue eyes from my mom, and my height from my dad. What about you?”
I froze. “I don’t know,” I admitted. She gave me a puzzled look, and suddenly that blank spot in my heart stretched wider.
That night, I asked my parents again about my birth parents. They gave me the same answers they always had: they didn’t know much. Closed adoption. I was a baby when I came into their arms.
“But don’t you ever wonder?” I pressed.
Mom reached across the table, squeezing my hand. “Of course we wonder. But you’re ours. That’s what matters.”
I nodded. It should have been enough. But the questions didn’t go away. They grew.
Sixteen
This year, turning sixteen, something shifted. Maybe it’s the age — the edge of adulthood. Maybe it’s the way friends are learning to drive, falling in love, planning their futures. Everyone is defining themselves, and I can’t shake the feeling that a piece of my definition is missing.
I catch myself staring into mirrors longer than before, tilting my head and wondering: whose nose is this? Whose stubborn jawline?
Sometimes I imagine my birth mother looking like me, carrying the same quiet smile. Other times, I wonder if I’m nothing like her at all.
A Letter in the Attic
Last month, curiosity drove me higher than it ever had before — literally. While searching through the attic for old costumes, I stumbled across a box labeled “Adoption.” My hands shook as I pulled it down.
Inside were papers: official, stamped, clinical. My birth date, my weight, the agency’s name.
And a letter.
It was addressed to me, though I had never seen it.
My birth mother’s handwriting curved across the page, shaky but deliberate:
*“To my baby girl,
If you are ever old enough to read this, I want you to know I loved you. I could not give you what you needed. But I prayed you would find parents who could. Please don’t think I didn’t want you. I just wanted better for you.
Love,
M.”*
I sat there in the dust, the letter trembling in my hands. Tears blurred the ink until it swam on the page.
Telling Them
That night, I went downstairs with the letter. My parents were watching TV, and I just stood there, the paper shaking between my fingers.
“Why didn’t you show me this?” I asked. My voice cracked on the last word.
They exchanged a glance. Dad sighed, his shoulders heavy. “We thought… maybe when you were older. Or maybe never, if it would only hurt you.”
Mom reached for me, her eyes bright with worry. “We didn’t want you to feel torn between two families.”
I sank onto the couch beside them. “But I *am* torn. I need to know who I am. Don’t you get that?”
Silence stretched. Then Dad put his arm around me. “We’ll help you. However you want to search, whatever you want to know. We’ll be with you.”
The anger inside me softened. They weren’t hiding the letter to betray me. They were afraid of losing me.
Searching for “M.”
Since then, I’ve been thinking constantly about “M.” The woman who wrote those words.
Was she young? Was she scared? Does she still think about me on my birthdays? Does she wonder if I’m safe, if I’m happy, if I hate her?
Part of me wants to track her down immediately, to demand answers. Another part whispers that maybe it’s better not to know. What if she rejects me again? What if I’m a wound she’s tried to heal?
My parents say it’s my choice. They’ve even offered to hire someone to help find her. But I’m not ready yet.
What Adoption Means Now
At sixteen, adoption isn’t just a proud label anymore. It’s a web of love and loss, of choices and consequences.
I have two families: one who raised me, one who let me go. Both define me, even though I’ve only met one.
I used to think being adopted made me special because I was chosen. Now I see it makes me complicated. I’m stitched together by two stories, two women — the one who gave me life, and the one who taught me how to live it.
And maybe that’s okay. Maybe identity doesn’t have to be simple.
Closing Thought
Sometimes, late at night, I unfold the letter again. I trace the signature, “M,” with my finger.
Then I hear Mom downstairs, humming while she puts away dishes. Or Dad calling up the stairs, “Lights out, kiddo!” And I know — no matter where I came from, no matter what I find — I am loved.
I am not half a story. I am both.
