Not My Birth Mother, But I Want to Call Her Mom

I wasn't her biological daughter.

But she raised me with her life, doing odd jobs, cleaning public restrooms, spoon-feeding me every meal.

Eighteen years later, my birth parents showed up, claiming she was just a nanny.

I stood at the door, watching them hand over legal documents and a thick envelope of money.

Then I turned, wrapping my arms around the woman in the faded sweater, who was coughing too hard to speak.

I told them, "You're not a nanny. You're my mom."

### 1

On my eighteenth birthday, Mom forgot to buy me a cake.