For thirty years, I believed a lie. I believed I was adopted, abandoned by parents who couldn’t keep me. I believed I had been unwanted. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for the truth I uncovered when I walked into the orphanage that was supposed to have been my first home.

It all started when I was three years old. My dad sat me down on the couch, his hand resting heavily on my tiny shoulder. I don’t remember much about that moment—just the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.