“No one wants her,” she said softly. “She has a birthmark on her face. Families come to meet her, but they always choose someone else.”
Her words pierced me. I looked at Thomas, and he looked back at me. We didn’t need to speak. Something inside us stirred—a sense of recognition, of destiny.
We were already in our fifties, and people whispered that we were too old to take on a child. But when we walked into that orphanage and saw her, all doubts vanished.
Her name was Lily. She had wide, searching eyes and a small, trembling smile. The birthmark stretched across her cheek, but to us, it was nothing more than a mark of uniqueness. When she looked at me, my heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. I loved her instantly.
We brought her home, and from that day forward, our lives were transformed.
Raising Lily
Lily was everything we had ever dreamed of. She was curious, bright, and endlessly kind. She loved books, loved asking questions, and loved helping in the kitchen. She grew up with a quiet resilience, never letting the whispers about her birthmark define her.
Thomas and I poured ourselves into parenthood. We were older than most parents, but perhaps that made us more patient, more grateful. Every milestone—her first day of school, her first piano recital, her first time riding a bicycle—felt like a miracle.
Years passed, and Lily blossomed into a remarkable young woman. She excelled in school, driven by a dream to become a doctor. “I want to help people,” she told us one evening, her eyes shining. “I want to make sure no one feels unwanted or overlooked.”
Thomas and I were bursting with pride. She was our world, our joy, our second chance at life.
For illustrative purposes only
The Letter
Then, twenty-five years after we first brought her home, everything changed.
It was an ordinary morning. I went to the mailbox, sorting through bills and advertisements, when I noticed a strange envelope. No stamp. No return address. Just my name written in shaky handwriting.
I opened it, and inside was a letter.
