I Am This Person, Not Someone Else

“You have to tell her, Linda. She deserves to know!”

I froze in the hallway, my hand still clutching the doorknob. I was just back from my last high school exam—AP History, the one I’d nearly lost sleep over. I’d been planning to burst in, show off my passing grade, and maybe, just maybe, ask if we could order pizza to celebrate. But my mom wasn’t alone. I heard my aunt’s voice—Aunt Rachel, the one who only visited when something was wrong.

“You know what the therapist said,” Aunt Rachel insisted, her voice lower but urgent. “Secrets eat families alive.”

My mom’s reply was muffled, but I caught the words: “It’s never been the right time.”

I tiptoed past the living room and ducked into my bedroom. My heart was thumping so hard it hurt. Was someone sick? Was it about Dad? Why did it feel like I was the secret?

I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to stop my hands from shaking. I heard my name—”Anna”—and I pressed my ear to the door. That’s when I heard it.

“She’s old enough to understand. She isn’t a child anymore, Linda. Anna deserves to know the truth about her birth.”

My birth. The word echoed. I felt cold all over.

***

That night, I barely touched my dinner. Mom kept glancing at me. Dad, oblivious, asked about my exams, but I muttered something about being tired and went back to my room. I sat at my desk, scrolling through Instagram, but my mind buzzed with questions. My birth? What truth?

My phone buzzed. A text from my best friend, Emily:

“Hey, did you pass?”

I stared at it, then typed: “Yeah. Barely. Stuff’s weird at home.”

She replied instantly: “Wanna talk?”

But I didn’t know what to say. How do you tell your best friend you might not be who you think you are?

***

The next morning, the house was silent. Dad had gone to work. Mom was in the kitchen, staring into her coffee like it held all the answers.

“Anna, can we talk?” she asked, her voice soft.

I sat down, arms crossed. “About my birth?”

She looked startled, then sad. “You heard us.”

“Was I adopted?” I blurted.

Mom nodded, tears brimming. “Yes. You were. We always meant to tell you, but—”

“But what? You were waiting for the right time?” I could hear my voice rising. “When is it ever the right time for something like this?”

Mom reached for my hand. I pulled away. “I’m still your mom. I raised you. But you have another family, too. We wanted to protect you.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted to ask a million questions, but all I could do was whisper, “Who are they?”

***

For days, I barely spoke. At school, I felt like everyone could see right through me, like there was a neon sign over my head: IMPOSTER. Emily noticed. “You look like a ghost,” she said, nudging me at lunch. “You wanna hang out after school?”

I nodded. My parents had given me a letter—my birth mom’s letter, written before I was born. I hadn’t opened it. It felt too heavy, too final.

That afternoon, Emily and I sat by the creek behind her house. Finally, I told her everything.

She listened, eyes wide. “So… you’re adopted? Does it change anything?”

I shrugged. “It feels like I don’t know who I am. Like my whole life was a lie.”

Emily squeezed my hand. “You’re still you. You’re still Anna. That doesn’t change.”

But I wasn’t sure.

***

At home, Mom gave me the contact info for my birth mother: Jessica Turner, somewhere in Ohio. She’d reached out through the agency, wanting to connect if I ever wanted to.

I stared at her name for days. Finally, I sent an email. Just a simple, “Hi, I’m Anna. I’d like to know more about you.”

She replied within hours.

“Dear Anna, I’ve thought about you every day. I hope you’re happy and loved. I’d love to talk.”

We started emailing. She told me about herself, about the choice she made, about how she was young and scared and wanted me to have a better life. Her words made my heart ache. I felt angry and grateful and confused all at once.

Finally, she suggested a call. I sat on my bed, phone shaking in my hand. Mom sat outside my room, just in case.

“Hi, Anna,” Jessica’s voice trembled. “You sound just like I imagined.”

I swallowed. “Why did you give me up?”

She sighed. “I was sixteen. My parents… they wouldn’t let me keep you. I wanted you to have a family who could give you everything I couldn’t.”

I wanted to hate her, but I couldn’t. I wanted to forgive her, but I wasn’t ready.

***

Weeks passed. My parents tried to give me space, but the tension was thick. One night, I exploded at dinner.

“Why didn’t you just tell me? Why did you lie for so long?”

Dad put his fork down. “We were scared, Anna. We thought we’d lose you.”

“You’re my parents,” I said, sobbing. “But I need to know who I am.”

Mom came around the table and hugged me. I let her. For the first time in weeks, I let myself cry in her arms.

***

Senior year ended. Graduation day, I saw both sets of parents in the audience—my mom and dad, and Jessica with her husband. I walked across the stage, feeling like I was walking into a new chapter, one where I could be Anna—no one else.

After the ceremony, Jessica approached me. We hugged, awkward but real.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispered.

My mom stood beside me, teary-eyed. “No matter what, you’re our daughter.”

I looked at both of them and realized I didn’t have to choose. I could be a part of both families, or neither, or just myself.

Now, I’m heading to college, still unsure of so much, but finally ready to start figuring it out.

Do you ever feel like you’re living someone else’s life? Or is that just me?