I grew up in an orphanage. Without a mum, without a dad, without a surname that anyone would hold on to. My memories are filled with identical corridors and an understanding that came too early: if you are alone, you have to grow up before your time.
Lila, my closest friend, grew up there too. Two girls whom no one was waiting for on holiday and no one needed to ‘pick up.’ We often whispered in the evenings and promised each other that when we grew up, we would definitely build a family — a warm, real one, the kind we never had.
Years passed. And one day, Lila had hope for this happiness: she became pregnant. But the joy was short-lived — when the man heard the news, he disappeared as quickly as if he had never been there. Lila had no parents, no brothers or sisters, no ‘fallback option.’ Only me.
We both knew what loneliness was like and didn’t want to repeat it.
Lila needed someone by her side — not just in words, but in reality.
I decided to be that person, no matter what.
On the day of the birth, I was there — not as a blood relative, but as someone who would hold her hand and never let go. That’s how Miranda came into the world. To everyone else, I became the ‘aunt’ who helped, picked things up, calmed people down, brought soup and listened to their night-time fears. But to Lila, I was her only support.
And then something happened that is too terrible to even think about. One rainy morning, there was an accident, and Lila was gone. It wasn’t loud and dramatic like in the movies — life just took a wrong turn in a second, and the world became quieter.
Miranda was only five.
Sometimes fate doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It just presents you with a fait accompli and waits for you to decide who you want to be.
There were no relatives or people willing to take the girl in. None at all. And then the question ‘who?’ turned into ‘only me.’
I was twenty-seven when I signed the adoption papers. I didn’t let Miranda go through the same thing Lila and I did: counting the beds in the bedroom, watching some children get taken away and others not, and learning not to expect too much from the world.
For thirteen years, I did everything I could. I made her birthdays memorable. I helped with crafts and school projects. I dusted the dirt off her knees after she fell and listened to long stories about her friends. I went through her first disappointments and tried to be there, even when she said, ‘Leave me alone.’
I kept telling her, ‘You’re not an accident. You’re a gift.’
I tried to show her that home isn’t just walls, it’s a feeling of security.
I taught her to believe that love can be lasting.
There were evenings when she cried because of her mother. I didn’t forbid her to be sad and didn’t rush her to ‘forget.’ I told her how kind, stubborn, and funny Lila was. I told her that her mother loved her with all her heart — and that love hadn’t gone anywhere.
And then Miranda turned eighteen. I was preparing for the usual adult changes: university, plans, independence. I was even proud — quietly, inside — that she had become strong and intelligent.
A few days after her birthday, she appeared at my door. Her face looked as if she had rehearsed the conversation for a long time, but was still afraid to say the words out loud.
‘Miranda, are you all right?’ I asked.
She looked away for a second, then looked back at me.
‘I’m eighteen now,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m an adult by law.’
‘Of course,’ I smiled. ‘I know, sweetheart.’
But there was no smile in return.
‘That means… everything will be different now,’ she continued, her voice trembling. ‘And you… you need to pack your things.’
Sometimes the most painful words sound mundane — that’s why they hit you right in the heart.
I blinked, not immediately understanding what I had heard. For a moment, I even thought it was an awkward joke or someone’s stupid idea from the internet.
‘Pack my things?’ I asked. ‘Miranda, what are you talking about?’
My heart sank: I didn’t know what was behind her silence, what thoughts she was harbouring, and why she had decided to push me away right now.
But one thing was clear to me: we were about to have a conversation that would change us both. And whatever it turned out to be, I wasn’t going to respond with anger. I knew all too well what fear disguised as coldness looked like.
Conclusion: I gave Miranda a home because I once dreamed of having a home myself. And now, hearing her demand to ‘pack my things,’ I realised that a real family is tested not only by care, but also by difficult conversations that cannot be postponed. Whatever was behind her words, I was ready to seek the truth — calmly, honestly, and with love.
