I grew up in an orphanage, was separated from my little sister when I was eight, and spent the next three decades wondering if she was even alive. That is, until an ordinary business trip turned a random supermarket run into something I still can’t fully explain.
My name is Elena, and when I was eight years old, I promised my little sister I’d find her.
Then I spent 32 years failing.
She followed me everywhere.
Mia and I grew up in an orphanage.
We didn’t know our parents. No names, no photos, no “someday they’ll come back” story. Just two beds in a crowded room and a couple of lines in a file.
We were stuck to each other.
She followed me everywhere, clung to my hand in the hallway, cried if she woke up and couldn’t see me.
Then one day a couple came to visit.
I learned to braid her hair using my fingers instead of a comb. I learned how to steal extra bread rolls without getting caught. I learned that if I smiled and answered questions well, adults were nicer to both of us.
We didn’t dream big.
We just wanted to leave that place together.
Then one day, a couple came to visit.
A few days later, the director called me into her office.
They walked around with the director, nodding and smiling. The kind of people who looked like they belonged on those “adopt, don’t abandon” brochures.
They watched the kids play.
They watched me reading to Mia in a corner.
A few days later, the director called me into her office.
“Elena,” she said, smiling too much, “a family wants to adopt you. This is wonderful news.”
“You need to be brave.”
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