When Layla was born, her mother didn’t survive the delivery.
I took her home. I was just her aunt, but I became her everything.
First steps, first day of school, every tear, every laugh — I was there.
When she turned eighteen, a distant relative told her,
“She’s not your real mother.”
The words hit her hard.
She yelled, told me her life was a lie, packed her bags, and left.
The house felt painfully quiet.
For two months, I heard nothing.
Then one night — a message:
“I feel so bad. I’m coming home. Please don’t lock the door.”
I didn’t sleep.
I just sat on the couch, phone in my hand, staring at the door.
At sunrise, there was a soft knock.
She stood there — tired, crying, shaking.
Before I could speak, she broke:
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how much you loved me until I left.”
I didn’t ask where she’d been.
I didn’t lecture.
I just held her.
While we hugged, she slipped something into my hand:
a crumpled photo of me holding her as a baby.
She whispered,
“I didn’t lose my mother. I found her. I’m lucky it was you.”
