When my sister Clair knocked on my door, it was pouring. She was soaked, shaking, and holding a manila envelope in one hand and her adopted daughter’s small hand in the other. “Hey Bree, this child isn’t ours anymore,” she said, her voice breaking like the storm outside.
I thought she was going crazy at first. But the words that came next altered everything for us.
Clair had always been the responsible, organized sister—the one who made plans, took care of things, and had everything under control. In my twenties, I was the untidy, roaming one who traveled from job to job and relationship to relationship.
I thought Clair had the best life when she married Wes. They decided to adopt after years of trying to conceive kids. Eden came into our lives at that time. Five years old, with big blue eyes, peaceful and careful, and holding Clair’s hand. For six months, Eden made my sister happier than I’d ever seen her. Every phone call, every picture, and every whispered “I love you” showed how pleased she was.
That night came next. The rain. The letter. Clair’s eyes were full of fear. Results of a DNA test are inside the envelope.
Clair remarked, “She’s not ours.” “She’s your daughter.”
I chuckled hesitantly at first. Then the memories came back to me: I was 22, afraid, alone, and pregnant, and I chose adoption because I felt it was the best thing to do. Now my child was in front of me, and I had a second opportunity.
Clair told them everything: the first adoptive family lost custody, the documents were sealed, and Eden ended up with them without knowing it. My daughter has been in foster care for a long time. The life I envisioned for her never materialized.
Clair remarked, “You have a choice now.” “I’ll help you if you want to be a part of her life.” No matter what it takes.
With the help of my fiancé, Miles, and Clair, we got through the hard process of meetings, interviews, and home visits. A judge signed the paperwork months later. Eden was officially mine.
The change was smooth. We let Eden get used to things, painted her room her favorite color, prepared pancakes on Sundays, and watched amusing movies. Little by little, she started to believe that she was home. One night, I said to her,
“I’m your mom.” Your real mom. I believed I was doing the right thing by letting someone else take care of you. But I always thought about you.
She got onto my lap and said, “I knew you would come back.”
Six months later, our mornings are full with braided hair, school meals, bedtime stories, and kisses goodnight. Every Sunday, Clair comes to see Eden, and Eden leaps into her arms like nothing has changed. Love has grown, messy and difficult to deal with, but it’s still there.
Life has shown me that some parts can be reopened, rewritten, and saved. This time, I’m not going to let go. This isn’t just my tale anymore; it’s our story.