After 30 Years, I Discovered the Truth About My Father’s Lie—Here’s What I Learned

For 30 Years, My Father Made Me Believe I Was Adopted – I Was Shocked to Find Out Why

I thought I was adopted for thirty years, having been left behind by parents who were unable to retain me. However, my entire world was upended by a visit to the orphanage.

My father initially told me I was adopted when I was three years old. I had just finished constructing a tower out of blocks of various colors while we sat on the couch. He may have smiled at me, but it was a smile that stopped short of his eyes.

Saying “Sweetheart,” he put his hand on my shoulder. “There’s something you should know.”

I clutched my favorite plush rabbit as I peered up. “What is it, Daddy?”

He stated, “Your real parents couldn’t take care of you,” in a gentle yet strong tone. “So, your mother and I took over. To provide you with a better life, we adopted you.

“Real parents?” I tilted my head in question.

He gave a nod. “Yes. Even though they were unable to retain you, they still loved you very deeply.

The word “love” gave me a sense of security even though I didn’t fully grasp it. “So you’re my daddy now?”

“That’s right,” he concurred. I nestled against his chest and felt like I belonged when he gave me a hug.

My mother passed away in a vehicle accident six months later. I only have a vague memory of her, a grin that was warm and gentle like sunlight on a cold day. It was just my dad and myself after that.

It wasn’t so horrible at first. Dad looked after me. He allowed me to watch cartoons on Saturday mornings and prepared peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. However, as I got older, things began to shift.

I had trouble tying my shoes when I was six years old. As I pulled at the laces, I sobbed in frustration.

Dad let out a deep sigh. He whispered to himself, “Perhaps your stubbornness came from your real parents.”

“Stubborn?” I blinked up at him as I asked.

He responded, “Just… figure it out,” and turned to leave.

He frequently said stuff like that. He would place the blame for my academic difficulties and mistakes on my “real parents.”

Dad threw a backyard cookout for my sixth birthday. All the kids from the neighborhood were coming, so I was thrilled. I wanted to exhibit my new bike to them.

“You know, we adopted her,” Dad replied, lifting his glass as the grownups stood around chatting and laughing. The responsibility was too much for her biological parents to bear.

The laughter subsided. Holding my plate of chips, I froze.

“Oh, really?” one of the mothers inquired. How depressing.

Dad took a sip of his drink and nodded. “Yeah, but she’s lucky we took her in.”

My chest sunk with the words like stones. The other children at school murmured about me the following day.

One boy snarled, “Why didn’t your real parents want you?”

A female laughed and asked, “Are you gonna get sent back?”

I cried as I hurried home, hoping my father would console me. But he shrugged when I informed him. According to him, “Kids will be kids,” “You’ll get over it.”

Dad began taking me to a nearby orphanage on my birthdays. “Look at how fortunate you are,” he would say, parking outside the building and pointing to the children playing in the yard. No one is with them.

I started to dread my birthday by the time I was a teenager.

All I could think of was that I wasn’t wanted. I worked hard and kept my head down in high school, trying to establish my worth. But I always felt inadequate, regardless of what I did.

I eventually asked Dad about my adoption when I was sixteen years old.

“Can I see the papers?” One evening while we were having dinner, I inquired.

After scowling, he walked away from the table. He returned a few minutes later carrying a folder. One page—a certificate bearing my name, a date, and a seal—was enclosed.

“You see? He tapped the paper and said, “Proof.”

Unsure of how to react, I gazed at it. Something about it felt… unfinished, even though it appeared realistic enough.

I didn’t ask any more questions, though.

When I met Matt years later, he immediately saw through my defenses.

He said, “You don’t talk about your family much,” while we were sitting on the couch one evening.

I gave a shrug. “There’s not much to say.”

He didn’t let it go, though. I eventually told him everything, including the adoption, the taunting, the trips to the orphanage, and my constant sense of alienation.

He softly questioned, “Have you ever thought about looking into your past?”

“No,” I blurted out. “Why would I? My father has already filled me up on everything.

With a gentle yet firm tone, he questioned, “Are you sure?” “What if the story isn’t finished? Do you not want to know?

My heart thumping, I hesitated. Whispering, “I don’t know,” I said.

As he squeezed my hand, he whispered, “Then let’s find out together,”

I thought about it for the first time. But what if it was more?

I had underestimated the size of the orphanage. The playground apparatus in front of it appeared aged but well-maintained, and its brick walls were faded. As Matt parked the car, my hands were clammy.

He turned to face me and asked, “You ready?” with a calm, comforting look.

“Not really,” I said, holding on to my purse tightly. “But I guess I have to be.”

The scent of cleaning supplies and something sweet, like cookies, permeated the air as soon as we entered. Behind a wooden desk, a woman with gentle eyes and short gray hair greeted us.

“Hi, how can I help you?” she said with a kind grin.

I took a deep breath. “When I was three years old, I was adopted from this place. I’m looking for additional details regarding my biological parents.

She responded, “Of course,” with a tiny frown in her brow. “What’s your name and the date of your adoption?”

I told her what my father had told me. After giving a nod, she started typing on an outdated computer. The sound of the keys clacking seemed to reverberate throughout the silent room.

Minutes went by. She scowled more deeply. She flipped through a thick binder and tried again.

At last, she raised her head, her face contrite. I apologize, but there are no records of you here. Is this the correct orphanage, in your opinion?

I felt sick to my stomach. “What? However, according to my father, here is where I was adopted. I have heard that all my life.

Leaning forward, Matt took a quick look at the documents. “Is there something wrong? Perhaps there is another orphanage nearby.”

She gave a headshake. “We maintain incredibly thorough records. We’d know if you were here. I’m so sorry.

As her words took hold, the room whirled. All of a sudden, my life seemed to be a lie.

There was a lot of silence on the drive home. My mind were racing as I gazed out the window.

“Are you okay?” Matt looked at me and inquired quietly.

“No,” I answered in a shaky voice. “I need answers.”

decisively, “We’ll get them,” he added. Let’s speak with your father. He must tell the truth to you.

My heart was beating so loudly that I could hardly hear anything else as we arrived at my dad’s house. I knocked and the porch light flickered.

The door opened after a moment. My dad’s face was furrowed with astonishment as he stood there in his old plaid shirt.

He said, “Hey,” in a cautious tone. “What are you doing here?”

I didn’t make an effort to be nice. I shouted out, “We went to the orphanage,” “They have no documentation of me. Why would they say that?

His face went cold. He remained silent for a long time. Then he let out a deep breath and took a step back. “Come in.”

He led Matt and me into the living room. With his hand raking through his thinning hair, he sunk into his recliner.

“I knew this day would come,” he muttered below his breath.

“What are you talking about?” With a broken voice, I demanded. “Why did you lie to me?”

His sadness darkened his features as he gazed at the floor. He added, “You weren’t adopted,” in a voice that was almost audible. “You’re not my child, but your mother’s. She had a liaison.

The words struck me hard. “What?”

He said, “She cheated on me,” in a resentful tone. “She pleaded with me to stay when she became pregnant. I couldn’t look at you without picturing what she had done to me, even if I agreed. I therefore made up the adoption tale.

My hands were shaking. “You have deceived me all my life? Why would you do that?

He answered, “I don’t know,” with a hunched posture. “I was upset. I was hurt. I reasoned that it could be simpler for me to deal with you if you felt you weren’t mine. Perhaps I wouldn’t despise her as much. It was foolish. I apologize.

I blinked back tears as I spoke incredulously. “You faked the papers?”

Slowly, he nodded. “A friend of mine was employed in the records industry. I owed him a favor. It was easy to make it appear authentic.

I was having trouble breathing. The taunting, the trips to the orphanage, and the remarks on my “real parents” weren’t directed at me. It was how he coped with his suffering.

The words “I was just a kid,” I muttered. “I didn’t deserve this.”

He said, “I know,” in a voice that broke. “I know I failed you.”

With unsteady legs, I got to my feet. “At this time, I am unable to accomplish this. You can count on me to look after you when the time comes. I turned to Matt and said, “But I can’t stay.” “Let’s go.”

Matt scowled at my father and nodded, his jaw clenched. Softly, “You’re coming with me,” he said.

My dad called after me as we left the house. “I apologize! I truly am.

However, I didn’t look back.

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