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We adopted a girl no one wanted because of a birthmark. Twenty-five years later, a letter from her biological mother showed up in our mailbox and changed what we thought we knew.
I’m 75. I’m Margaret.
For most of that time, it was just us. We wanted children. We tried for years.
I did tests, hormones, appointments. One day a doctor folded his hands and said, “Your chances are extremely low. I’m so sorry.”
That was it.
No miracle. No follow-up plan. Just an ending.
We grieved, then adjusted.
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