I met my adoptive mom when I was twelve. Honestly, I didn’t love her. I just wanted to leave the orphanage, and she was my way out. She did everything to make me feel at home—bought me clothes, cooked my favorite food, and came to all my school events—but I never appreciated her. I stayed distant and kept telling myself she wasn’t my real mom.
A year ago, she died. At her funeral, I felt nothing but guilt and emptiness. Then a stranger came up to me and gave me a small porcelain figurine, saying, “She wanted you to have this.” I didn’t know why. Without thinking, I threw it to the floor in anger and broke it.
Inside, I found a small rolled-up piece of paper. My hands shook as I opened it. It was her handwriting—some numbers and one word: PASSWORD.
I remembered her once talking about a bank account, but I didn’t pay much attention back then. Now, curiosity got the best of me. I checked the account—and what I found shocked me. She had been saving money for me all those years. But there was also a note in her will:
“The money will only be given if you become a registered foster parent.”
I just sat there, speechless. Even after she was gone, she was still guiding me—still teaching me to share the love I once refused.
I’ve started the process of becoming a foster parent. Honestly, it’s scary. Not because of the responsibility, but because I’m afraid a child might see me the way I once saw her—cold and ungrateful. Maybe that’s what she wanted—to help me understand what real love is, the kind that gives without expecting anything back.
And for the first time, I think I’m ready to learn.