When I was twenty-two, curiosity finally grew stronger than fear. For years, I had told myself I didn’t care. But deep down, there was always a question that never stopped whispering: Why? I didn’t want money or explanations or apologies. I just wanted to see her. To look at the woman who gave birth to me and know where I came from.
It took months of searching, paperwork, and late nights online, but eventually I found her address. On the bus ride there, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I rehearsed what I might say over and over again. Hello. I’m your daughter. I just wanted to meet you. I don’t want anything.
When she opened the door, she didn’t smile. She looked at me like I was a stranger who had made a mistake.
She looked polished and confident, wearing the ease of someone who had built a stable life. Over her shoulder, I saw framed photographs lining the wall—family portraits, school pictures, three children smiling brightly. A whole world existed behind that door. A world that had never included me.
She asked me what I did for a living.
I told her the truth. I said I was a waitress. I said I didn’t have a college degree. I said I was working and managing on my own.
Her face changed immediately.
“You’re just a waitress?” she said, her voice sharp and dismissive. “No degree? I don’t want you anywhere near my kids.”
Then she shut the door in my face.
For illustrative purposes only
There was no yelling. No dramatic confrontation. Just the quiet, final sound of the lock clicking into place. I stood there for a moment, frozen, my chest burning as if the air had been knocked out of me. Then I turned around and walked away.
That day, I made a promise to myself. I would never reach out again. I would never knock on that door. Whatever hope I had been carrying for years—I buried it right there on her doorstep.
