For thirty years, I believed I was adopted, abandoned by parents who couldn’t keep me. But a trip to the orphanage shattered everything I thought I knew.
I was three years old the first time my dad told me I was adopted. We were sitting on the couch, and I had just finished building a tower out of brightly colored blocks. I imagine he smiled at me, but it was the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
A girl playing with building blocks | Source: Pexels
“Sweetheart,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “There’s something you should know.”
I looked up, clutching my favorite stuffed rabbit. “What is it, Daddy?”
“Your real parents couldn’t take care of you,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “So your mom and I stepped in. We adopted you to give you a better life.”
“Real parents?” I asked, tilting my head.
A man playing with his daughter | Source: Pexels
He nodded. “Yes. But they loved you very much, even if they couldn’t keep you.”
I didn’t understand much, but the word “love” made me feel safe. “So you’re my daddy now?”
“That’s right,” he said. Then he hugged me, and I nestled into his chest, feeling like I belonged.
A man hugging his daughter | Source: Pexels
Six months later, my mom died in a car accident. I don’t remember much about her—just a blurry image of her smile, soft and warm, like sunshine on a chilly day. After that, it was just me and my dad.
At first, things weren’t so bad. Dad took care of me. He made peanut butter sandwiches for lunch and let me watch cartoons on Saturday mornings. But as I grew older, things started to change.
A man feeding his daughter | Source: Pexels
When I was six, I couldn’t figure out how to tie my shoes. I cried, frustrated, as I tugged at the laces.
Dad sighed loudly. “Maybe you got that stubbornness from your real parents,” he muttered under his breath.
“Stubborn?” I asked, blinking up at him.
“Just… figure it out,” he said, walking away.
A girl crying | Source: Pexels
He said things like that a lot. Anytime I struggled with school or made a mistake, he’d blame it on my “real parents.”
When I turned six, Dad hosted a barbecue in our backyard. I was excited because all the neighborhood kids were coming. I wanted to show them my new bike.
As the adults stood around talking and laughing, Dad raised his glass and said, “You know, we adopted her. Her real parents couldn’t handle the responsibility.”
A man talking to his family at a barbecue | Source: Midjourney
The laughter faded. I froze, holding my plate of chips.
One of the moms asked, “Oh, really? How sad.”
Dad nodded, taking a sip of his drink. “Yeah, but she’s lucky we took her in.”
The words sank like stones in my chest. The next day at school, the other kids whispered about me.
Two girls whispering | Source: Pexels
“Why didn’t your real parents want you?” one boy sneered.
“Are you gonna get sent back?” a girl giggled.
I ran home crying, hoping Dad would comfort me. But when I told him, he shrugged. “Kids will be kids,” he said. “You’ll get over it.”
A man shrugging | Source: Pexels
On my birthdays, Dad started taking me to visit a local orphanage. He’d park outside the building, point to the kids playing in the yard, and say, “See how lucky you are? They don’t have anyone.”
By the time I was a teenager, I dreaded my birthday.
A sad girl in her room | Source: Pexels
The idea that I wasn’t wanted followed me everywhere. In high school, I kept my head down and worked hard, hoping to prove I was worth keeping. But no matter what I did, I always felt like I wasn’t enough.
When I was 16, I finally asked Dad about my adoption.
A girl talking to her father | Source: Midjourney
“Can I see the papers?” I asked one night as we ate dinner.
He frowned, then left the table. A few minutes later, he came back with a folder. Inside, there was a single page—a certificate with my name, a date, and a seal.
“See? Proof,” he said, tapping the paper.
I stared at it, unsure of what to feel. It looked real enough, but something about it felt… incomplete.
A girl looking at documents in her hands | Source: Midjourney
Still, I didn’t ask any more questions.
Years later, when I met Matt, he saw through my walls right away.
“You don’t talk about your family much,” he said one night as we sat on the couch.
I shrugged. “There’s not much to say.”
A young couple watching TV together | Source: Pexels
But he didn’t let it go. Over time, I told him everything—the adoption, the teasing, the orphanage visits, and how I always felt like I didn’t belong.
“Have you ever thought about looking into your past?” he asked gently.
“No,” I said quickly. “Why would I? My dad already told me everything.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice kind but steady. “What if there’s more to the story? Wouldn’t you want to know?”
A couple having a serious talk | Source: Pexels
I hesitated, my heart pounding. “I don’t know,” I whispered.
“Then let’s find out together,” he said, squeezing my hand.
For the first time, I considered it. What if there was more?
A woman deep in thought | Source: Pexels
The orphanage was smaller than I had imagined. Its brick walls were faded, and the playground equipment out front looked worn but still cared for. My palms were clammy as Matt parked the car.
“You ready?” he asked, turning to me with his steady, reassuring gaze.
“Not really,” I admitted, clutching my bag like a lifeline. “But I guess I have to be.”
A couple talking in a car | Source: Midjourney
We stepped inside, and the air smelled faintly of cleaning supplies and something sweet, like cookies. A woman with short gray hair and kind eyes greeted us from behind a wooden desk.
“Hi, how can I help you?” she asked, her smile warm.
I swallowed hard. “I… I was adopted from here when I was three years old. I’m trying to find more information about my biological parents.”
A woman standing at a desk in an orphanage | Source: Midjourney
“Of course,” she said, her brow furrowing slightly. “What’s your name and the date of your adoption?”
I gave her the details my dad had told me. She nodded and began typing into an old computer. The clacking of the keys seemed to echo in the quiet room.
Minutes passed. Her frown deepened. She tried again, flipping through a thick binder.
A woman looking through documents | Source: Pexels
Finally, she looked up, her expression apologetic. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have any records of you here. Are you sure this is the right orphanage?”
My stomach dropped. “What? But… this is where my dad said I was adopted from. I’ve been told that my whole life.”
Matt leaned forward and peeked into the papers. “Could there be a mistake? Maybe another orphanage in the area?”
A man looking through the documents | Source: Midjourney
She shook her head. “We keep very detailed records. If you were here, we would know. I’m so sorry.”
The room spun as her words sank in. My whole life suddenly felt like a lie.
The car ride home was heavy with silence. I stared out the window, my thoughts racing.
“Are you okay?” Matt asked softly, glancing at me.
A serious woman in a car | Source: Midjourney
“No,” I said, my voice trembling. “I need answers.”
“We’ll get them,” he said firmly. “Let’s talk to your dad. He owes you the truth.”
When we pulled up to my dad’s house, my heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear anything else. The porch light flickered as I knocked.
It took a moment, but the door opened. My dad stood there in his old plaid shirt, his face creased with surprise.
A man in a plaid shirt | Source: Midjourney
“Hey,” he said, his voice cautious. “What are you doing here?”
I didn’t bother with pleasantries. “We went to the orphanage,” I blurted out. “They don’t have any record of me. Why would they say that?”
His expression froze. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he sighed heavily and stepped back. “Come in.”
A man talking to his daughter | Source: Midjourney
Matt and I followed him into the living room. He sank into his recliner, running a hand through his thinning hair.
“I knew this day would come,” he said quietly.
“What are you talking about?” I demanded, my voice breaking. “Why did you lie to me?”
An angry woman | Source: Pexels
He looked at the floor, his face shadowed with regret. “You weren’t adopted,” he said, his voice barely audible. “You’re your mother’s child… but not mine. She had an affair.”
The words hit me like a punch. “What?”
A sad middle-aged man | Source: Midjourney
“She cheated on me,” he said, his voice bitter. “When she got pregnant, she begged me to stay. I agreed, but I couldn’t look at you without seeing what she did to me. So I made up the adoption story.”
My hands trembled. “You lied to me for my entire life? Why would you do that?”
A confused shocked woman | Source: Pexels
“I don’t know,” he said, his shoulders slumping. “I was angry. Hurt. I thought… maybe if you believed you weren’t mine, it would be easier for me to handle. Maybe I wouldn’t hate her so much. It was stupid. I’m sorry.”
I blinked back tears, my voice shaking with disbelief. “You faked the papers?”
He nodded slowly. “I had a friend who worked in records. He owed me a favor. It wasn’t hard to make it look real.”
A sad man looking at his hands | Source: Midjourney
I couldn’t breathe. The teasing, the orphanage visits, the comments about my “real parents” wasn’t about me at all. It was his way of dealing with his pain.
“I was just a kid,” I whispered. “I didn’t deserve this.”
“I know,” he said, his voice breaking. “I know I failed you.”
A sad woman sitting in her kitchen | Source: Midjourney
I stood up, my legs shaky. “I can’t do this right now. Be sure that I will take care of you when the time comes. But I can’t stay,” I said, turning to Matt. “Let’s go.”
Matt nodded, his jaw tight as he glared at my father. “You’re coming with me,” he said softly.
As we walked out the door, my dad called after me. “I’m sorry! I really am!”
But I didn’t turn around.
A sad grieving woman | Source: Pexels
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided as “is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
My Late Mom Left Me a Trust Fund, but My Dad Took Money from It for His Stepdaughter — I Finally Retaliated
My mom was my everything, and when cancer took her, she left me memories and a lifeline — a trust fund meant for my future. When my dad greedily started using it for his stepdaughter, it felt like he was erasing Mom’s memory piece by piece. I couldn’t let him take what was left of her or me.
There’s this thing about losing someone you love — you carry the weight of it forever, even if it doesn’t show. I lost my mom to breast cancer when I was ten. One day, she was there, brushing my hair and humming to some old rock song, and the next, she was gone. Just like that.
A grieving young woman mourning before a loved one’s grave | Source: Freepik
I remember our last conversation like it was yesterday. She was sitting on her hospital bed, her fingers weakly running through my hair.
“Promise me something, baby girl,” she whispered.
“Anything, Mom,” I said, trying to hold back my tears.
“Promise me you’ll never let anyone dim your light. You’re so special, Iris. So incredibly special.”
A sad woman sitting on a hospital bed | Source: Pexels
She didn’t leave me with much — just a few photos, the smell of her favorite vanilla perfume lingering on her scarves, and a trust fund she set up for me before she passed.
“This is for Iris,” she’d told my dad and my grandparents. “For her education and her future. Promise me she’ll always have it.”
They promised. My dad promised too. But promises don’t mean much when someone’s not around to hold you to them.
A trust agreement on a table | Source: Midjourney
My dad remarried two years later. His new wife, Marianne, came with her own baggage: a twelve-year-old daughter named Emily.
I didn’t mind at first. Mom was gone, and I thought maybe this could be a new chapter.
But I quickly learned how things would work in our house: Emily first, Marianne second, Dad somewhere in the mix, and me? Not even in the picture!
An annoyed girl | Source: Pexels
It started small. Once, our fridge and shower broke at the same time. Dad took money from the trust fund without my permission to fix them.
“I’ll pay it back,” he said like it was no big deal. A week later, he bought Emily a MacBook for her birthday. On mine? A $100 gift card.
It wasn’t the money — it was the message.
Over the years, he kept dipping into the fund for car repairs, home renovations, and things that had nothing to do with me. “It’s just temporary,” he’d always say. But the withdrawals kept piling up, and the “temporary” excuses wore thin.
A frustrated teenage girl | Source: Pexels
By the time I got to college, I didn’t need the money for tuition because of my scholarship. That didn’t stop him from finding new ways to use it, though. Every time I brought it up, he brushed me off. “Don’t stress, Iris. It’s safe.”
Safe. Right.
“You understand, don’t you, Iris?” That’s what he’d always say when something I needed got pushed aside for Emily. New clothes for her pageant? Sure. My vacation? Maybe next year. It stung, but I swallowed it down.
But the swallowing got harder.
I’ll never forget the day I realized how much of Mom’s trust fund was gone. It was late one night during my final year of college. I’d overheard Emily talking to her friends about how “Daddy” was covering the cost of her new car. My stomach twisted as I thought about the fund.
A delighted woman talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney
“Can you believe it?” Emily squealed through the thin walls. “A brand new BMW! Daddy said I deserve it for making it to nationals!”
My hands trembled as I sat at my desk, memories of Mom’s words echoing in my head: “This is for Iris. For her future.”
It had been years since I’d seen the account. My dad had told me not to “stress over it.” But now, something felt off, and I decided to check it.
I logged into the account, and my heart sank. The numbers didn’t make sense. Thousands were missing. Pageant fees. A water heater. Emily’s car. Every withdrawal was like a punch in the gut.
A woman using a laptop | Source: Pexels
By the time I closed my laptop, my hands were shaking. This wasn’t just money. It was Mom’s legacy. She’d trusted Dad to protect it, and he’d drained it like it was his personal wallet.
I called my grandma the next morning.
“Sweetheart,” she said after I told her everything. “This has gone on long enough. You have to stand up to him.”
“I can’t breathe, Grandma,” I sobbed into the phone. “It feels like he’s erasing Mom piece by piece. Like he’s erasing ME.”
“Oh, my sweet girl,” she whispered. “Your mother would be furious right now. She fought so hard to make sure you’d be taken care of.”
“I know,” I cried, my throat tight. “I trusted when he said he’d put the money back. But he’s only been draining Mom’s hard-earned money.”
A worried older woman talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney
“Your mother was a fighter,” Grandma added. “And so are you. It’s time to show them that.”
“I will when the right time comes,” I said, my heart heavy as I hung up.
It all came to a head a week later. Graduation was around the corner, and I was finally ready to celebrate after four years of sleepless nights and busted printer deadlines. I called Dad and told him I was graduating on December 20th. I could hear the pause on the other end of the line, long enough for my stomach to drop.
A woman calling her father | Source: Midjourney
“Oh, December 20th?” he said finally. “That’s when Emily’s pageant is. We’ve already made plans.”
“You’re missing my graduation for a pageant?”
“Ah, c’mon, Iris. Graduation’s not a big deal. You’ll have more of those. But this pageant? It’s her chance to shine.”
I didn’t even realize I was gripping my phone so hard until my fingers started to hurt. “You’re kidding, right?”
A woman engrossed in a phonecall | Source: Pexels
I heard Marianne chime in, her tone dripping with condescension from the background. “Don’t be selfish, Iris. Graduations happen all the time. Emily’s pageant is once-in-a-lifetime.”
“Selfish?” I spat. “Dad, this isn’t about being selfish. This is about you choosing Emily over me. Again.”
“That’s not fair —” he protested.
“Not fair? You want to talk about fair? When was the last time you chose me? When was the last time you even saw me?”
A man on a phonecall | Source: Midjourney
“Of course I see you, Iris.”
“No, you DON’T!” The words burst out of me like a dam breaking. “You see Emily. You see her pageants and her dance recitals and her EVERYTHING. But me? I’m just the ghost in the corner. Mom’s leftover that you don’t know what to do with.”
“Iris, that’s enough!”
“No, it’s not enough! It’s never been enough!” I cried, years of hurt pouring out. “Do you know what Mom’s last words to me were? She made me promise not to let anyone dim my light. But you’ve been doing exactly that for years, Dad. Years!”
A furious woman talking on the phone | Source: Pexels
He sighed like I was being unreasonable. “We’ll celebrate when we’re back. I promise.”
The word “promise” hit me like a slap. “Your promises don’t mean anything anymore,” I whispered. “They haven’t since Mom died.”
I hung up without saying goodbye. My grandparents, at least, showed up for my graduation. Seeing their proud faces in the crowd made the day feel a little less lonely. They hugged me so tightly afterward, reminding me that someone still cared. I was happy, but I had one last thing to do.
A heartbroken woman | Source: Midjourney
The next day, I walked into Dad’s office with the account statements in hand. My stomach was doing backflips, but I couldn’t let that stop me.
“We need to talk,” I said, shutting the door behind me and dropping the papers on his desk.
Dad looked up from his computer, frowning. “What’s this?”
“The trust fund statement. Mom’s trust fund. The one you’ve been draining for years.”
His face paled, but he tried to play it off. “Iris, come on. Everything I’ve spent was for the family. You’ve never needed it. You had a scholarship.”
“That money wasn’t for the family,” I cut in. “It was for ME. For MY future. And you spent it on Emily. Don’t even try to deny it. The statements don’t lie.”
A stack of documents on a table | Source: Midjourney
“You don’t understand what it’s like,” he stood up, his voice rising. “Being a father, trying to blend two families —”
“And you don’t understand what it’s like watching your father erase every trace of your mother!” I shot back. “That money was the last thing she could give me, and you treated it like your personal ATM!”
He leaned back in his chair, his jaw tightening. “I did what I had to do.”
“No,” I said, standing my ground. “You did what was convenient for you. And now you’re going to pay it back. Every penny.”
His laugh was bitter. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll sue you.”
A woman crossing her arms and pointing her finger at someone | Source: Pexels
The room went silent. For the first time in my life, I saw real fear in his eyes.
“You wouldn’t,” he said finally.
“Mom always said I had her backbone,” I replied. “Maybe it’s time you remembered that.”
The fallout was as messy as I expected. My stepmom and stepsister called me, yelling through the phone. “How could you do this, Iris?” Marianne’s voice was shrill like I had personally burned their house down.
“Do what?” I said, gripping my phone tighter. “Stand up for myself? Demand the respect I’ve never gotten from you people?”
An annoyed senior woman | Source: Midjourney
“Don’t make this about you,” she snapped. “You’re punishing us because we couldn’t be in two places at once. You know how much Emily’s pageant meant to her!”
“And my graduation didn’t mean anything to you,” I fired back. “I’ve had enough, Marianne. I’m done.”
“How dare you? After everything we’ve done for you?”
“Done for me?” I laughed hollowly. “What exactly have you done except try to replace everything about Mom?”
A young woman laughing | Source: Midjourney
“I tried to be a mother to you!”
“No,” I snapped. “You tried to erase my mother. There’s a difference.”
She called me a “selfish” brat. But I didn’t back down.
Under the U.S. law, she and Dad had no leg to stand on. My grandparents helped me draft the legal documents, and by the time I handed them over, Dad knew he was out of options.
A month later, the money was back in my account. They’d taken out loans to do it, but that wasn’t my problem. I moved out the next week and settled into my grandparents’ house temporarily. It felt good to be somewhere warm and safe for once.
A woman with a suitcase and bag | Source: Pexels
“You’ve always been stronger than you think, Iris,” Grandma said one night as we sat on the porch. She wrapped her cardigan around my shoulders, and it smelled like Mom’s vanilla perfume.
“I didn’t feel strong,” I admitted, staring at the stars. “I just felt angry.”
“Sometimes, anger is what we need to get moving,” she said with a smile. “Your mother… she knew this might happen, you know. That’s why she made us promise to watch over you.”
“She did?”
“Oh yes. She said, ‘My Iris might bend, but she’ll never break.’ She knew exactly who you were, sweetheart.”
I handed her a check the next day, a portion of the repaid money. She tried to refuse it, but I insisted. “You and Grandpa have done more for me than anyone else ever has. Please. Let me do this.”
A woman holding a check | Source: Midjourney
She hugged me so tightly that I thought I might break. “We’re so proud of you. And your mom… oh, she would be over the moon.”
With the rest of the money, I enrolled in grad school and got my own apartment. It wasn’t fancy, but it was mine.
One night, as I unpacked some boxes, I came across an old photo of Mom and me. She was holding me in her lap, her smile soft and warm.
“I did it, Mom,” I whispered, running my fingers over the photo. “I kept my promise. I didn’t let them dim my light.”
A woman holding an old photograph | Source: Midjourney
My phone buzzed with a message from Dad. But I didn’t open it.
Instead, I texted Grandma: “I think I’m finally free.”
Her reply was immediate: “You are, sweetheart. You are. Your mother is probably dancing in heaven right now.”
I set the phone aside and smiled, my eyes misty. For the first time in years, I felt like I was finally living for me. Living how Mom had always wanted me to… bright and unafraid.
An emotional young woman | Source: Midjourney
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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