My parents died in a terrible car accident when I was two. I don’t remember them, but their picture has been with me all these years since I came to the foster home. It was a small comfort, a connection to a past I couldn’t recall. Years went by without anyone adopting me until, when I was seven, Betty showed up on the doorstep of the foster home. We immediately hit it off, and she and her husband decided to adopt me.
Betty was wonderful and kind, but my foster dad, Alex, didn’t like me. One day, during another argument, I heard Alex say to Betty, “I don’t understand why you went back for her.” They were talking about me, and I couldn’t understand what Alex meant. I decided to find the answers myself and went through Betty’s things.
One afternoon, when Betty and Alex were out, I snuck into their room. I felt guilty, but my curiosity got the better of me. I rummaged through drawers, carefully putting things back in place. In a small wooden box at the back of her closet, I found a photo of a young Betty with my parents, dated before I was born.
Suddenly, Betty walked into the room. My heart leaped into my throat. “Sarah, what are you doing?” she asked. I stammered, “I-I found this picture… You knew my parents?”
Betty’s expression softened. She explained that my parents were her best friends from college. She had wanted to adopt me immediately after their accident but wasn’t in a position to do so. She had visited me often, from a distance, wanting to ensure I was okay.
Betty’s love and support deepened our bond, and I found solace in knowing I had a connection to my past through her. Despite Alex’s initial resentment, he grew to accept me. As I grew older, I learned more about my parents from Betty, who became not just a foster mom but a living link to the life I had lost.
