It was pouring when my sister Clair knocked on my door. She was wet, shivering, and holding a manila envelope in one hand and her adopted daughter’s small hand in the other. “Hey Bree, this kid isn’t ours anymore,” she replied, her voice breaking like the storm outside.
At first, I thought she was going mad. But the next words changed everything for us.
Clair had always been the responsible and organized sister. She was the one who made plans, took care of things, and kept everything in order. In my twenties, I was the messy, wandering person who went from job to job and relationship to relationship.
When Clair married Wes, I felt she had the ideal life. After years of attempting to have kids, they decided to adopt. At that moment, Eden came into our lives. Five years old, with big blue eyes, calm and cautious, and holding Clair’s hand. Eden made my sister joyful than I’d ever seen her for six months. Every phone call, picture, and whispered “I love you” indicated how happy she was.
Next came that night. The rain. The note. Clair’s eyes were full with fear. The envelope has the results of a DNA test.
Clair said, “She’s not ours.” “She’s your daughter.”
At first, I laughed a little bit. Then I remembered: I was 22, scared, alone, and pregnant, and I chose to give my baby up for adoption because I thought it was the greatest thing to do. Now I got a second chance because my child was right in front of me.
Clair told them everything: the first adoptive family lost custody, the papers were sealed, and Eden ended up with them without knowing it. For a long time, my daughter has been in foster care. The life I had planned for her never happened.
Clair said, “You have a choice now.” “I’ll help you if you want to be in her life.” No matter what it takes.
We got through the grueling process of meetings, interviews, and home visits with the help of my fiancé, Miles, and Clair. The papers were signed by a judge months later. I officially owned Eden.
The shift went off without a hitch. We let Eden get used to things, painted her room her favorite color, made pancakes on Sundays, and watched funny movies. She began to believe that she was home little by little. One night, I told her,
“Hey, I’m your mom.” The mother who gave birth to you. I thought it was best to let someone else take care of you. But I constantly thought about you.
She sat on my lap and whispered, “I knew you would come back.”
Six months later, our mornings are packed with braided hair, school dinners, bedtime readings, and kisses goodnight. Clair comes to see Eden every Sunday, and Eden jumps into her arms like nothing has changed. Love has grown, complicated and tough to cope with, but it’s still there.
I’ve learned that some elements of life can be reopened, rewritten, and saved. I’m not going to let go this time. This is no longer just my story; it’s ours.
