I read the name again.
Camila Reyes.
My younger sister.
The sister my parents told me had moved overseas seven years earlier after “destroying her life with bad choices.”
I stared at them.
“Renata is Camila’s daughter?”
My mother began crying.
My father said nothing.
The attorney’s letter explained that new records had been released after Camila’s death. She had given birth at nineteen and placed her daughter for adoption.
That daughter was Renata.
The little girl my wife and I had adopted four years later without knowing any connection existed.
“What happened to Camila?” I demanded.
My mother finally admitted the truth.
When Camila became pregnant, my parents were ashamed.
They pressured her to give up the baby and told the rest of the family that she had chosen to leave.
In reality, Camila had tried several times to contact them.
They ignored her.
Years later, when they learned the name of the agency through which we had adopted Renata, my mother began to suspect the truth.
That morning’s legal letter confirmed it.
“And you made her wash dishes while the other children opened presents?” I asked.
My father looked away.
“She reminds your mother of everything that happened.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“She is six years old. She didn’t do anything to either of you.”
I picked Renata up.
We left immediately.
The next day I met with the attorney.
DNA testing later confirmed it.
Renata was biologically my niece.
But that changed absolutely nothing about who she was to me.
She was still my daughter.
The documents also contained several letters Camila had written before her death.
In one, she said:
“If my daughter ever finds Mauricio, tell him I never stopped loving him. I just didn’t know how to come home.”
I cried reading it.
My parents eventually apologized, but I did not allow them back into Renata’s life immediately.
An apology was not enough.
They had to prove they could treat her with the love and dignity every child deserves.
Months later, Renata asked me:
“Dad, if Aunt Camila was my first mommy, are you still my real dad?”
I hugged her.
“I chose you before I knew we shared blood. That makes you my daughter twice.”
My parents had tried to convince Renata she didn’t belong.
The truth was almost painfully ironic.
She had belonged to our family from the day she was born.
