I always knew I was adopted. My parents were loving, supportive, and never hid it from me. I had a wonderful childhood—homework help, bedtime hugs, birthday pancakes. It was perfect. Until my 18th birthday.
It started with an anonymous email. Then a blank Facebook request. Finally, a knock at the door. A woman, fragile and teary-eyed, whispered, “I’m your mother.” Her name was Sarah.
She claimed my adoptive parents had stolen me. She begged me to listen, handed me documents with her signature, and called me “Emmie”—a name from her memories. Confused and desperate, I agreed to visit her.
Her house? A mansion. Chandeliers. Grand staircase. “This life should’ve been yours,” she said.
My adoptive parents were devastated. “She left you once,” my father warned.
The next day, a neighbor named Evelyn approached me. “She lied,” she said. Sarah hadn’t been tricked—she had given me up. Partied. Spent every dime. Never once searched for me.
So why now?
Evelyn’s answer chilled me: “Your grandfather died. Left it all to you. She wants access—through you.”
The truth cracked my heart open.
She didn’t come back for love.
She came back for the inheritance.
