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“No, Hannah. The agency lied to us. Everything was a lie.”
“Lied about what? Megan, you’re not making sense.”
A shocked woman | Source: Pexels
A shocked woman | Source: Pexels
Megan pressed her palms against the table. Her knuckles went white. “Daniel and I ran a DNA test a few weeks ago. We just wanted to learn about her background. Medical history, maybe find some distant relatives for her someday.” Her voice cracked. “But the results came back, and she’s related to me. Closely related. Like first-degree relatives closely.”
The room felt as if it were spinning. “That doesn’t make sense. How are you related to her?”
“It made perfect sense once I figured it out.” Megan looked up at me, and I saw something in her eyes I’d never seen before. Raw fear. Pain. “Hannah, she’s yours. Ava is your daughter.”
I actually laughed. Not because it was funny, but because my brain couldn’t process what she’d just said. “That’s impossible. I don’t have a daughter. I would know if I…”
Then it hit me. A memory I’d buried so deep I’d almost convinced myself it never happened.
Grayscale shot of an emotional woman covering her face | Source: Pexels
Grayscale shot of an emotional woman covering her face | Source: Pexels
Six years ago. I was 22, broke, and terrified. I’d just lost my job at that startup because of a stupid office affair that imploded spectacularly. The man I thought I loved? He told me to “handle it” when I said I was pregnant. Those were his exact words. Handle it. Like I was a problem to be solved, not a person carrying his child.
I had no money. No apartment anymore since I’d been crashing with friends. No plan for tomorrow, let alone for raising a child. So, I made what everyone told me was the responsible choice. I gave her up for adoption soon after giving birth.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking while I signed those papers. I told myself she’d have a better life with a genuine family, people who had their lives together. I forced myself to move on, to lock that chapter away and never open it again.
Grayscale shot of a newborn baby | Source: Unsplash
Grayscale shot of a newborn baby | Source: Unsplash
“Oh my God,” I whispered. My legs went weak, and I grabbed the counter. “The couple who adopted her…”
“Were frauds,” Megan finished quietly. “They lost custody when she was two. Something about neglect and inability to care for her anymore. She went back into the foster system. And when Daniel and I adopted her last year, we had no idea. The agency never told us about her biological family. They said her records were sealed.”
Ava turned out to be… my daughter. The baby I’d held for exactly four hours before they took her away. The child I’d tried to forget about, who I’d convinced myself was living some perfect life somewhere, was sitting in my living room right now.
“I gave her up, thinking she’d be safe.” The words came out choked. “I gave her up so she could have a good life, and she spent years in foster care? Years, Megan?”
Megan grabbed my hands across the table. “You didn’t know. There’s no way you could’ve known. The system failed both of you.”
Two emotional women hugging each other | Source: Pexels
Two emotional women hugging each other | Source: Pexels
I started crying. Not pretty tears, but these ugly, body-shaking sobs that hurt my chest. “I thought I was doing the right thing. Everyone said I was doing the right thing.”
“You were trying to,” Megan said softly, weeping too. “At 22, you were scared and alone. You were trying to do what was best for her.”
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