I adopted my best friend’s daughter after her sudden death — a tragedy that felt like a cruel twist of fate. When the girl turned 18, she stood in the doorway of my room, a determined expression on her face, and declared, “YOU NEED TO PACK YOUR THINGS!”
My childhood was spent in an orphanage, a lonely place where dreams echoed off cold walls. No parents, no relatives, no one to claim me when I fell ill or celebrated a small victory. Just an existence marked by longing for connection.
Lila, my best friend, shared that same lonely upbringing. We grew up as two girls without the last names that mattered. In the dim light of the orphanage, we made a promise: when we became adults, we would build a family filled with love, warmth, and the security we had always yearned for.
Years later, life handed us a glimmer of joy. Lila discovered she was pregnant, her eyes shining with hope, even as the father bolted the moment he found out. Alone again, she had no siblings, no parents to lean on, no safety net to catch her fall. There was only me.
