Two weeks after my grandmother’s funeral, my phone rang with a stranger’s voice saying words that made my knees buckle: “Your grandmother wasn’t who you think she was.” I had no idea the woman who raised me had been hiding a secret big enough to change my entire life.
I was six years old when I lost my parents.
The days that followed were dark, filled with adults whispering about the drunk driver who killed them and debating what to do with me.
The words “foster care” floated around the house. That idea terrified me. I thought I was going to be sent away forever.
