I was raised in an orphanage and separated from my little sister at eight. For thirty years, I wondered if she was alive—until a routine business trip and a chance supermarket visit changed everything.
My name is Elena. When I was eight years old, I promised my little sister I would find her.
Then I spent thirty-two years failing.
Mia and I grew up in an orphanage. We had no parents, no photos, no comforting story about someone coming back for us. Just two narrow beds in a crowded room and a thin file with barely any information. So we became each other’s whole world.
She followed me everywhere—gripping my hand in hallways, panicking if she woke up and couldn’t see me. I learned how to braid her hair using my fingers. I learned how to sneak extra bread rolls without getting caught. I learned that if I smiled politely and answered questions the right way, adults treated us both better.
We didn’t dream big. We only dreamed of leaving together.
Then one day, a couple came to visit.
They walked through the orphanage with the director, smiling and nodding, the kind of people you’d see in adoption brochures. They watched children play. They watched me reading to Mia in the corner.
