12/17/2025
I adopted my best friend’s daughter after her sudden death — and when the girl turned 18, she looked at me and said, “YOU HAVE TO PACK YOUR THINGS.”
I grew up in an orphanage, with no parents, no relatives, no one to claim me. Lila, my best friend, shared that same orphanage. We were two girls whose surnames mattered to no one, but we promised each other that, when we were old enough, we’d forge the family we’d never had.
Happiness was fleeting. Lila got pregnant, and the father vanished the moment he found out. No siblings, no parents, no safety net—only me. I was by her side when she delivered Miranda, and I became the “aunt” she could count on, the extra set of hands in a world that offered none.
Then the rain‑slick morning came, a truck lost its grip, and Lila was gone. Miranda was just five. No one else would take her. I was the only one who would.
At 27 I signed the papers, vowing to spare her the orphanage’s cold counting beds and the endless parade of strangers. I promised she’d never know that world.
For thirteen years I was her everything: birthdays, projects, bruised knees, heartbreaks. I soothed her when she mourned a mother she never met, and I whispered that she was chosen, loved, and truly wanted.
Then, a few days after she turned eighteen, Miranda stood at my doorstep, her expression unreadable.
“Miranda? Are you okay?” I asked.
She hesitated, eyes darting around the room.
I’m eighteen now,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “Legally an adult.”
“Of course,” I replied, forcing a smile. “I know, sweetheart.”
She stayed serious.
“That means things are different now,” she said. “And you… YOU HAVE TO PACK YOUR THINGS!”
I stared, bewildered. For a moment I laughed nervously, then asked, “Pack my things? Miranda, what do you mean?”