Skip to content 
For six months, everything seemed like a fairytale. Ava started kindergarten, and Megan would send me photos of her in adorable little uniforms with her backpack almost bigger than she was.
They did family photo shoots, posted matching Halloween costumes online, and went to the zoo every other weekend. Megan called me every Sunday without fail, and I’d never heard her voice sound so full of joy.
“She’s learning to ride a bike,” she’d say, her voice practically singing. Or, “She told me she loved me for the first time today, Hannah. Just out of nowhere while I was making her sandwich. I cried right there in the kitchen.”
Every conversation glowed with the happiness I’d been desperate to see in my sister again.
I’d tease her sometimes. “You’re becoming one of those moms who only talk about their kid.”
“I know,” she’d laugh. “I don’t even care. Everything she does is just magic.”
A woman laughing | Source: Pexels
A woman laughing | Source: Pexels
Then, one Tuesday evening in October, someone knocked on my door. No text warning. No phone call. Just pounding that made my heart jump and Lewis look up from his laptop with concern.
I opened it to find Megan standing on my porch in the rain. She looked like a ghost. Her face lacked color, and her eyes were red and swollen, as if she had been crying for days. Ava stood beside my sister, her small hand clutched in Megan’s, looking confused and scared.
“We need to talk.” Megan’s voice came out strangled, barely above a whisper.
My stomach dropped. “What’s wrong? Come in, you’re both soaking wet.”
Lewis came to the door, immediately sensing something was terribly wrong. “Megan, what happened? Is Daniel okay?”
She just shook her head, unable to speak.
A woman holding a child’s hand | Source: Freepik
A woman holding a child’s hand | Source: Freepik
I asked Ava to go play in the living room with the toys we kept for when Daniel’s nephews visited. The little girl walked away silently, glancing back at Megan with worried eyes.
“Meg, you’re scaring me. What happened?” I led her into the kitchen while Lewis went to sit with Ava.
She followed me as if she were in a trance. Her hands trembled as she pulled an envelope from her purse and dropped it on my kitchen table like it was on fire. Papers spilled out partially, and I saw an official-looking letterhead.
“She’s not ours,” Megan said flatly, staring at the envelope. “This child isn’t ours… not anymore.”
I blinked, confused. “What do you mean she’s not yours? You adopted her. Of course she’s yours.”
CONTINUE READING ON THE NEXT PAGE