A Netflix documentary made me realize my entire life was a lie. I’m Marcus, 31 years old, and I was eating leftover pizza on my couch when everything I thought I knew shattered into a million pieces. The documentary was about adoption fraud in the 1990s. I almost didn’t watch it. I’d clicked on it by accident while scrolling through Netflix, half asleep after a long shift at the hospital where I work as a nurse, but something made me keep watching.

 
20 minutes in, they showed a photograph of a woman named Linda Martinez. She ran an adoption agency in Texas called New Beginnings. The photo was grainy, taken in 1993, but I recognized her immediately. That was my mom. I sat up so fast, I knocked my pizza onto the floor. I rewound the documentary and paused it on her face.

 
There was no mistake. That was definitely her. Younger with shorter hair and different glasses, but it was her. The narrator said Linda Martinez had been arrested in 1994 for falsifying adoption records and selling babies to wealthy couples. She told birth mothers their babies had d!ed during delivery.

 
Then turned around and sold those same babies for $50,000 each. My hands started shaking. I was adopted in 1993. My parents told me they got me through an agency in Texas called New Beginnings. I grabbed my phone and called my older sister, Rachel. She answered on the third ring, annoyed because it was almost midnight. I asked her if she remembered the name of the adoption agency where mom and dad got me. She said she didn’t know.

 
She was only 5 when they adopted me. She asked why I was calling so late. I told her to turn on Netflix. I told her to watch the documentary. I gave her the time stamp. She was quiet for a long time after I told her. Then she said she’d call me back. I sat there staring at the paused image of my mom on the screen.

 
My mom who made me pancakes every Sunday. My mom who came to every single one of my soccer games. My mom who helped me study for my nursing boards. My mom who might have bought me from a criminal. Rachel called back 10 minutes later. Her voice was tight. She said she’d watched it. She said we needed to talk to our parents.

 
I said I was going over there right now. She said she’d meet me there. I drove to my parents house in a days. I don’t remember the drive. I just remember pulling into their driveway and seeing the light still on inside. They were night owls. They’d be awake. Rachel pulled up right behind me. She looked as shell shocked as I felt.

 
We walked to the door together. I used my key to let us in. Mom was in the living room reading a book. Dad was watching the news. They both looked up, surprised to see us. Mom asked what was wrong. I pulled out my phone and showed her the paused image from the documentary. Her face went white. Dad stood up. He asked what we were watching.

 
Rachel said, “A documentary about adoption fraud.” “That’s Linda Martinez, the woman you got Marcus from.” Mom started crying immediately, just burst into tears. Dad put his arm around her, but he looked confused. I asked if it was true. I asked if they knew. Mom couldn’t speak. She was sobbing too hard. Dad looked at me and Rachel, and his face crumpled.

 
He said, “We didn’t know. We swear we didn’t know.” I asked him what he meant. He said they’d gone through New Beginnings because it came highly recommended. They’d been trying to adopt for years. Every agency had a year’s long waiting list, but New Beginnings promised them a baby within 6 months. It seemed too good to be true, but they were desperate. They paid $50,000.

 
2 months later, they got me. Rachel asked if they ever suspected anything. Dad said no. Everything seemed legitimate. They had paperwork. They had a birth certificate. Linda Martinez told them my birthother was a teenager who couldn’t keep me. They believed her. Mom finally stopped crying enough to speak.

 
She said, “We loved you from the moment we saw you. We never questioned where you came from because you were ours. You were our son. I felt sick.” I asked if they had heard about Linda Martinez getting arrested. Dad nodded. He said it happened about a year after they adopted me. They saw it on the news. Linda Martinez had been arrested for adoption fraud.

 
Dad said he’d called their lawyer immediately, terrified that I’d be taken away from them. The lawyer told them that as long as their paperwork was in order and they hadn’t knowingly participated in fraud, I was legally theirs. So, they never said anything. They never investigated further. They just kept quiet and hoped no one would come looking.

 
I asked if they ever tried to find my birthother. Mom shook her head. She said they were too afraid of what they might find. I stood up. I needed air. I walked outside and sat on their front porch steps. Rachel followed me. She sat down next to me and didn’t say anything for a while. Then she asked if I was okay. I said no.

 
She said she understood. We sat there in silence until Dad came out. He said, “Mom wanted to talk to me.” I went back inside. Mom was still on the couch, her eyes red and swollen. She said, “I know this changes everything. I know you must be angry, but I need you to know that we love you. We’ve always loved you. You’re our son.

 
” I told her I needed time to process this. She nodded. She said she understood. I left. Rachel stayed to talk to them. I drove home and sat in my apartment staring at the wall until the sun came up. Then I started researching. I found articles about Linda Martinez. There were dozens of them. She’d been convicted on 18 counts of adoption fraud and sentenced to 15 years in prison.

 
She’d served 12 and been released in 2006. I found a list of families who’d been affected by her crimes. There were support groups, online forums, people who’d spent years trying to find their biological families. I joined one of the forums and posted my story. I said I’d been adopted through New Beginnings in 1993, and I was looking for information about my birthother.

 
Within an hour, I had 20 responses. Most were from people in similar situations. They shared their stories. Some had found their birth families. Others were still searching. One message stood out. It was from a woman named Teresa. She said her sister had given birth at a hospital in Dallas in August 1993. The baby was a boy.

 
The doctors told her he’d d!ed shortly after birth. But Teresa always suspected something was wrong because they never let her sister see the body. She said her sister’s name was Maria Gutierrez. My birthday was August 14th, 1993. Was born in Dallas. I messaged Teresa back immediately. I asked for more details.

 
She said Maria had been 17 when she got pregnant. The father was her boyfriend, but he’d left when he found out. Maria’s parents were immigrants, deeply religious, and they were ashamed. They’ taken her to a hospital in Dallas because they didn’t want anyone in their community to know. When the baby supposedly d!ed, Maria fell into a deep depression. She blamed herself.

 
She’ tried to k!ll herself twice in the years that followed. She was 47 now. She’d never married, never had other children. She lived alone in Houston. Teresa said she’d spent years trying to find out what happened to that baby. She’d always believed he was alive somewhere. I told her I wanted to meet Maria.

 
Teresa said she’d arrange it. 3 days later, I was driving to Houston. Rachel came with me. She said she wanted to be there for me. We met Teresa and Maria at a coffee shop. I recognized Maria immediately, not because I’d seen photos, but because when I looked at her, I saw my own face staring back at me.

 
She had my eyes, my nose, my chin. She stood up when she saw me and her hand went to her mouth. She started crying. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there. Teresa gently guided Maria back to her seat. We all sat down. Maria couldn’t stop staring at me. She said, “You’re real. You’re alive.

 
” I said, “I think I might be your son.” She started sobbing. Rachel handed her tissues. Teresa put her arm around her. When Maria finally calmed down, she told me her story. She’d been 17, scared, and alone. Her parents had taken her to the hospital when she went into labor. They’d made her promise not to tell anyone about the baby.

 
They said they’d handle everything. She gave birth to a healthy baby boy. She held him for maybe 30 seconds. Then a nurse took him away. A few hours later, a doctor came in and told her the baby had d!ed, heart failure. They said it was quick. They said there was nothing anyone could have done. She asked to see him.

 
They said it was better if she didn’t. They said it would only make things worse. Her parents had her sign some papers. She didn’t read them. She was too distraught. Then they took her home. She spent years in therapy trying to cope with the loss. She never told anyone except Teresa. She carried the guilt and grief alone.

 
But about 5 years ago, she’d seen a documentary about Linda Martinez. She recognized the hospital where she’d given birth. She recognized some of the nurses. That’s when she started to suspect. She’d reached out to the hospital, but they claimed all records from that time period had been destroyed in a flood. She’d tried to file a police report, but without evidence, there was nothing they could do, so she’d given up hope until Teresa saw my post on the forum.

 
I asked if she wanted to do a DNA test. She said yes. We went to a clinic that afternoon and had our DNA samples taken. They said results would take about a week. That was the longest week of my life. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about Maria, about the life she’d lived, about the baby she thought she’d lost.

 
I also kept thinking about my parents, about mom and dad. They’d raised me. They’d loved me. But they’d also built their family on a lie. I was angry at them, but I was also angry at Linda Martinez. I was angry at the system that had allowed this to happen. Rachel came over every day to check on me. She said mom was a wreck. Dad, too.

 
They wanted to talk to me, but they were giving me space. I told her I didn’t know what to say to them yet. She said that was okay. On the seventh day, I got the call. The DNA test was a match. Maria was my biological mother. I called her immediately. She answered on the first ring. I said, “It’s true.

 
You’re my mom.” She started crying again. She said, “I knew it. I knew you were mine. We made plans to meet again. This time, just the two of us. We met at a park. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon. She brought a photo album. She showed me pictures of herself as a teenager, pictures of her parents, pictures of her life.

 
She told me stories about her childhood, about her dreams, about the boyfriend who’d left her. She said she’d thought about me every single day for 31 years. She’d wondered what I looked like, what kind of person I’d become, if I was happy, I told her about my life, about growing up with mom and dad and Rachel, about becoming a nurse, about my friends and my apartment and my job.

 
She listened to every word like it was precious. Then she asked the question I’d been dreading. She asked if I was going to tell my parents. I said they already knew. She looked surprised. I explained everything. The documentary, the confrontation, their admission. She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, “Do you hate them?” I said I didn’t know how I felt.

 
She said, “They raised you. They loved you. That matters.” I asked if she wanted to meet them. She said she didn’t know if she could. Not yet. I understood. We spent the next few hours just talking. Getting to know each other. By the time we said goodbye, I felt like I’d known her my whole life. And in a way, I had. She’d always been there in the back of my mind. The missing piece.

 
I didn’t know I was looking for. That night, I finally called my parents. Dad answered. He sounded nervous. I told him I’d found my birthother. I told him about the DNA test. He was silent for a moment. Then he asked if I was okay. I said I didn’t know. He asked if I wanted to come over. I said yes.

 
When I got there, mom and dad were waiting for me in the living room. Rachel was there, too. She must have driven over when she heard I was coming. I sat down and told them everything about Maria, about the DNA test, about her story. Mom cried the entire time. Dad held her hand. When I finished, Dad said, “What do you want from us?” I said, “I didn’t know.

 
” I said, “I was still trying to figure out how I felt about everything.” Mom said, “Do you want to leave? Do you want to go be with her?” I said, “No.” I said, “Maria was my biological mother, but they were my parents. They’d raised me.” That didn’t change just because I’d found the truth. Mom sobbed.

 
She said, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry we didn’t tell you. I’m so sorry we didn’t try to find her.” I said I was angry at them for not trying harder, for not questioning things more, but I also understood that they’d been afraid. Dad said we should have been braver. We should have done more. I said they couldn’t change the past.

 
None of us could. Rachel asked what I was going to do now. I said I wanted to have a relationship with Maria, but I also wanted to keep my relationship with mom and dad. Mom asked if Maria hated them. I said no. I said Maria understood that they’d loved me and raised me. She didn’t want to take me away from them. Mom said she wanted to meet Maria.

 
She wanted to apologize. I said I’d ask her. Two weeks later, we all met at a restaurant. Me, Rachel, mom, dad, Maria, and Teresa. It was the most awkward dinner of my life. Mom and Maria sat across from each other, both of them crying. Mom kept apologizing. She kept saying she didn’t know. She kept saying she was sorry for all the years Maria had lost.

 
Maria said, “You gave him a good life. That’s all I wanted for him. I wanted him to be happy.” Mom said, “I wish you could have been the one to raise him.” Maria shook her head. She said, “I was 17. I had nothing. I couldn’t have given him what you gave him. I’m grateful he ended up with people who loved him.” Dad said, “We should have looked for you.

 
We should have tried.” Maria said, “You were scared.” I understand. It wasn’t a perfect conversation. There were long silences. There were tears. But by the end of the night, something had shifted. Mom and Maria exchanged phone numbers. They promised to stay in touch. As we were leaving, Maria pulled me aside. She said, “Don’t be angry at them.

 
They gave you a family. They gave you love. That’s more than I could have done at 17.” I said, “But you’re my mom, too.” She smiled. She said, “Yes, I am, and I’m so grateful I get to know you now.” Over the next few months, I split my time between my two families. I had dinner with mom and dad every Sunday, like always.

 
I visited Maria in Houston every other weekend. Rachel came with me sometimes. Maria and I got to know each other. She told me about her life, her struggles, her triumphs. She’d become a teacher. She loved working with kids. She said it helped her feel connected to the child she thought she’d lost. I told her about my life, too.

 
about nursing school, about my first job, about the patients I’d helped, about the lives I’d saved. She was so proud. She said I’d turned out exactly how she’d hoped. Mom and Maria talked on the phone once a week. At first, it was awkward, but over time, they developed a strange kind of friendship. They both loved me in different ways.

 
They both wanted what was best for me. Rachel said it was the weirdest blended family she’d ever seen, but it worked. Then, 6 months after I found Maria, something happened that changed everything again. I got a call from Teresa. She said Maria was in the hospital. She’d collapsed at work. They’d run tests. She had stage 4 pancreatic cancer.

 
The doctor said she had maybe 6 months to live. I drove to Houston immediately. I found Maria in a hospital bed looking small and fragile. She smiled when she saw me. She said, “I’m sorry.” I said, “For what?” She said, “For leaving you again?” I started crying. I said, “You just got here. You can’t leave yet.

 
” She said, “I know, but I’m so grateful I got to meet you, even if it was only for a little while.” I held her hand and cried. Over the next few months, I spent every spare moment with Maria. I took time off work. I drove to Houston every weekend. Sometimes I stayed for weeks at a time. Mom and dad came to visit, too. They sat with Maria. They talked to her.

 
They brought her flowers and books and food she couldn’t eat. Rachel came. She brought Maria puzzles and movies and kept her company when I had to work. Maria’s health declined rapidly. By the fourth month, she couldn’t get out of bed. By the fifth month, she was on heavy pain medication and slept most of the day.

 
But when she was awake, she was present. She asked me questions about my life. She told me stories about her childhood. She made me promise to live a full, happy life. I promised. One night when it was just the two of us, she said, “I need to tell you something.” I said, “What?” She said, “I don’t regret anything.

 
I thought I lost you and it broke me. But then I found you again, and you were this amazing, kind, wonderful person. You became a nurse. You saved lives. You made something beautiful out of something terrible.” I said, “You would have been a great mom.” She said, “I like to think I still was, just from a distance.” She d!ed 3 weeks later. I was there holding her hand.

 
Teresa was on the other side of the bed. Mom and dad and Rachel were in the waiting room. Her last words were, “Thank you for finding me.” I said, “Thank you for never giving up.” The funeral was small, just family and a few of Maria’s friends from work. Mom and dad came. They sat in the back, quiet and respectful.

 
At the reception, one of Maria’s co-workers came up to me. She said Maria had talked about me all the time after we reconnected. She said Maria was happier in those 6 months than she’d been in years. That made me cry all over again. After the funeral, I went through Maria’s apartment with Teresa. We found boxes of things she’d saved over the years, newspaper clippings about adoption fraud, forms she’d printed out, letters she’d written to me but never sent.

 
In one box, I found a baby blanket. It was blue with white stars. Teresa said Maria had bought it when she was pregnant. She’d kept it all these years, even though she thought I was de@d. I took it home with me. That night, I sat in my apartment holding the blanket and crying. Rachel came over. She didn’t say anything.

 
She just sat next to me and let me cry. After a while, she said, “You gave her a gift. You gave her 6 months with her son. That’s more than she ever thought she’d have.” I said, “It wasn’t enough time.” She said, “It never is.” In the weeks after Maria d!ed, I fell into a depression. I couldn’t work.

 
I couldn’t eat. I just sat in my apartment staring at the walls. Mom called every day. She asked if I needed anything. She offered to come over. I always said no. Finally, one day, she just showed up. She let herself in with a spare key I’d given her years ago. She found me on the couch, unshaven and unwashed.

 
She didn’t say anything. She just sat down next to me and held me while I cried. When I finally stopped crying, she said, “You’re allowed to grieve. You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to feel however you feel.” I said, “I’m angry at Linda Martinez. I’m angry at the hospital. I’m angry at the universe for giving me Maria just to take her away again.” Mom said, “I know.

 
I’m angry, too.” I looked at her. I said, “Are you?” She said, “Of course I am. What that woman did was evil. She stole babies. She destroyed families. She made Maria think her son was de@d. She made us unknowing participants in her crimes. I’ll never forgive her for that. I’d never heard mom talk like that before.

 
She was usually so gentle, so kind, but there was steel in her voice now. She said, “But I’m also grateful because even though it started with a lie, it ended with you. And you’re the best thing that ever happened to your father and me.” I hugged her. I said, “I love you, Mom.” She said, “I love you, too, baby.

 
” After that, I started to heal slowly. It wasn’t easy. There were bad days. Days where I couldn’t get out of bed. Days where I was angry at everyone and everything. But there were also good days. Days where I could think about Maria and smile instead of cry. days where I could look at her photos and feel grateful instead of sad. I went back to work.

 
My co-workers welcomed me back with open arms. It felt good to be useful again, to help people, to save lives. About a year after Maria d!ed, I got a letter in the mail. It was from a law firm in Dallas. The letter said that Linda Martinez had d!ed. She’d had a heart attack in her sleep. She was 72 years old.

 
The letter also said that before she d!ed, she’d written a confession. She detailed every crime she’d committed, every baby she’d stolen, every family she’d destroyed. She’d named names, given dates, provided documentation. The law firm was reaching out to all known victims to inform them that they could now access their full adoption records.

 
They could find their biological families if they wanted to. The letter included my original birth certificate, the real one. It said my birth name was Daniel Gutierrez, born August 14th, 1993 to Maria Elena Gutierrez, father unknown. I sat there staring at that piece of paper for a long time. Daniel Gutierrez. That was who I was supposed to be, but I wasn’t him. I was Marcus Johnson.

 
That’s who I’d been for 31 years. That’s who I’d become. I called mom and told her about the letter. I asked her what name she wanted me to use. She said, “You’re Marcus. You’ve always been Marcus. That’s who you are.” I said, “But what about Daniel?” She said, “Daniel was the baby Maria lost.” Marcus is the son your father and I raised.

 
You can honor both names without choosing one. I thought about that. She was right. I was both. I was Daniel and Marcus. I was Maria’s son and mom and dad’s son. I was all of it at once. I framed the birth certificate and hung it on my wall next to a photo of Maria. Next to it, I hung a photo of mom and dad and Rachel.

 
My two families, both real, both important. Rachel came over one day and saw the display. She said, “That’s beautiful.” I said, “Thanks.” She said, “You know, I used to be jealous of you when we were kids.” I looked at her surprised. I said, “Why?” She said, “Because mom and dad chose you. They wanted you. Me? They were stuck with.” I said, “That’s not true.

 
” She said, “I know that now, but when I was a kid, that’s how it felt. especially after we found out you were adopted. I thought you were special because they picked you. I said, “You’re special, too.” She smiled. She said, “I know. It just took me a while to figure that out.” We stood there looking at the photos together.

 
She said, “Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if Maria had raised you?” I said, “Sometimes.” But then I remember that she was 17 and alone and struggling. I probably would have had a hard life. She said, “Or maybe you would have been happy anyway.” I said, “Maybe, but I’m happy now. That’s what matters.” She hugged me.

 
She said, “I’m glad you’re my brother, even if you are adopted.” I laughed. I said, “I’m glad you’re my sister. Even if you’re annoying,” she punched my arm. We both laughed. Life went on. I kept working at the hospital. I kept visiting mom and dad every Sunday. I kept Maria’s memory alive by volunteering at the same school where she taught.

 
I met a woman named Jessica at the hospital. She was a physical therapist. We started dating. 6 months later, I introduced her to mom and dad. They loved her. I told her my whole story about Maria, about Linda Martinez, about finding out my life was built on a lie. She said, “Your life isn’t a lie. Your life is exactly what you made it.

 
” I said, “What do you mean?” She said, “You could have been angry. You could have pushed everyone away. You could have let the truth destroy you. But instead, you built bridges. You created a family that included everyone. That’s not a lie. That’s beautiful. I’d never thought about it that way.” She was right.

 
Jessica and I got engaged a year later. We got married in a small ceremony in my parents’ backyard. Mom cried through the entire thing. Dad gave a speech about how proud he was of the man I’d become. Rachel was my best man. She wore a suit and gave a speech that had everyone laughing and crying. I wished Maria could have been there, but in a way, she was.

 
I carried the blue blanket with the white stars as my something borrowed. It made me feel like she was with me. On our wedding night, Jessica asked me if I was happy. I said, “Yes, I’m happy.” She said, “No regrets.” I thought about it. I thought about Maria. I thought about all the years we’d lost. I thought about Linda Martinez and the lies and the pain.

 
But then I thought about mom and dad and Rachel. I thought about the life they’d given me. I thought about becoming a nurse and helping people. I thought about meeting Jessica and falling in love. I said, “No, no regrets.” Because the truth was, my life hadn’t been a lie. It had been complicated. It had been messy.

 
It had been built on someone else’s crime, but it had also been full of love, and that was real. Jessica and I bought a house a year later. It was small, but perfect. We painted the walls and planted a garden and made it ours. Mom and dad came over every Sunday for dinner. Rachel came whenever she could. We’d sit around the table and eat and laugh and tell stories.

 
Sometimes I’d look around at all of them and feel overwhelmed with gratitude. I’d been given two families. Two mothers who loved me in different ways. A father who’d always been there. A sister who’d stood by me through everything. A wife who accepted all of me. I was lucky. I knew that. Last month, Jessica told me she was pregnant. We’re having a boy.

 
When I told mom, she cried. She said, “Maria would have been so happy.” I said, “I know. We decided to name him Daniel Marcus.” Daniel for the name Maria gave me. Marcus for the name Mom and Dad gave me. Both names. Both families. Both truths. Jessica asked if I thought our son would ever ask about his complicated family history.

 
I said, “Probably.” She said, “What will you tell him?” I said, “I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll tell him that families are complicated. that love is complicated, that sometimes bad things lead to good things, and good things come from bad things, and it’s all tangled up together. She said, “That’s heavy.” I said, “Life is heavy.” She laughed.

 
She said, “You’re going to be a great dad. I hope she’s right.” Yesterday, I went to visit Maria’s grave. I hadn’t been in a while. I brought flowers and sat down in the grass next to her headstone. I told her about Jessica and the baby. I told her we were naming him Daniel. I told her I thought she’d like that.

 
I told her I missed her. I told her I wished she could have had more time with me. I wish she could meet her grandson. But I also told her, “Thank you. Thank you for never giving up. Thank you for believing I was alive. Thank you for finding me.” As I was leaving, I noticed something I’d never seen before.

 
There was a small plaque next to Maria’s headstone. It said, “Beloved Mother of Daniel Marcus Johnson.” I felt tears well up in my eyes. Someone had placed it there. Probably Teresa. Maybe mom. It didn’t matter who. What mattered was that it was true. Maria was my mother. She’d always been my mother. Even when she thought I was de@d, even when I didn’t know she existed, she was my mother and I was her son.

 
That documentary changed my life. It shattered everything I thought I knew. It revealed lies and crimes and pain, but it also gave me Maria. It gave me 6 months with the woman who gave birth to me. 6 months to know her, to love her, to thank her, and that was worth everything. Tonight, I’m sitting in my living room with Jessica. She’s reading a book.

 
I’m writing in a journal I started keeping after Maria d!ed. I write about my days, my thoughts, my feelings. I write letters to Maria even though she can’t read them. It helps me feel connected to her. Jessica looks up from her book. She asks what I’m writing about. I say, “Everything.” She smiles. She says, “That’s a lot.” I say, “Yeah, it is.

 
” She goes back to her book. I go back to my journal. I write, “My life started with a lie, but it became something true, something real, something worth living.” I write, “I’m Marcus Johnson. I’m Danielle Gutierrez. I’m both. I’m neither. I’m something else entirely.” I write, “I’m a son, a brother, a husband, soon a father.” I write, “I’m a nurse.

 
I save lives. Maybe because Maria couldn’t save mine. Maybe because mom and dad gave me the chance to become someone who could. I write. I’m grateful and I am. I’m grateful for the documentary that changed everything. I’m grateful for Maria. I’m grateful for mom and dad and Rachel.

 
I’m grateful for Jessica and the baby on the way. I’m grateful for all of it. The good and the bad, the lies and the truth, the pain and the joy. All of it. Because it made me who I am, and I like who I am. I close my journal and set it aside. Jessica looks up again. She says, “You okay?” I say, “Yeah, I’m okay.” She says, “Good.

 
” We sit in comfortable silence for a while. Then she says, “Do you think Daniel will watch that documentary someday?” I say, “Brobably.” She says, “And then he’ll have questions.” I say, “Yeah, he will.” She says, “And you’ll tell him everything.” I say, “Everything.” She nods. She says, “Good. He deserves to know the truth.

 
” I say, “Everyone deserves to know the truth. Even when it’s complicated, even when it hurts, even when it changes everything because the truth is what sets you free. And I’m free now. Free from the lies. Free from the not knowing. Free from the weight of secrets. I’m free and so is Maria. Wherever she is, I hope she’s at peace.

 
I hope she knows I forgive her for nothing because there was nothing to forgive. I hope she knows I’m grateful for the six months we had. I hope she knows she was a good mom. Even if she never got the chance to raise me, I hope she knows I love her.” Jessica stands up and stretches. She says she’s going to bed.

 
She kisses my forehead and heads upstairs. I sit alone in the living room for a few more minutes. I look at the photos on the wall. Maria, mom and dad, Rachel, Jessica, my family, all of them. I think about the baby growing inside Jessica. Daniel Marcus, my son. He’ll have questions someday. He’ll want to know why he has two names.

 
Why his grandmother’s name is on a grave in Houston. Why his family tree is so complicated. And I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him about Linda Martinez and the lie she built. I’ll tell him about Maria and the son she thought she lost. I’ll tell him about mom and dad and how they loved me even when they were scared. I’ll tell him that families are complicated. That love is messy.

 
that sometimes the truth is painful, but it’s always worth knowing. And I’ll tell him that he’s loved unconditionally, completely by everyone, just like I was, just like I am. I turn off the lights and head upstairs. Jessica is already asleep. I slip into bed next to her and close my eyes. Tomorrow, I’ll go to work. I’ll save lives. I’ll be a nurse.

 
Tomorrow, I’ll call mom and dad. I’ll have Sunday dinner with them. I’ll be their son. Tomorrow, I’ll visit Maria’s grave. I’ll bring flowers. I’ll be her son, too. Tomorrow, I’ll come home to Jessica. I’ll hold her. I’ll feel our son kick. I’ll be a husband and soon a father.

 
Tomorrow, I’ll be all the things I am. all the truths, all the lies, all the complicated, messy, beautiful pieces of my life. And I’ll be grateful for every single one cuz that Netflix documentary didn’t just make me realize my life was a lie. It made me realize my life was worth living. All of it. Every moment, every truth, every lie, all of