I opened my photo gallery and turned the screen to my daughters. The photos told a story I'd carried with me for decades. A younger version of myself stood in front of a government building, holding a folder. Another picture showed two little girls holding my hand in front of a courthouse, their expressions worried and uncertain.
“That's us,” Monica muttered.
"Yes," I replied. "That was the day I became your legal guardian."
Teresa shook her head in disbelief and asked why I would say something like that in public.
“Why would you say that,” I asked her calmly, “on my birthday, in front of everyone?”
Harold clenched his jaw and told me not to rewrite history.
"I'm not rewriting anything," I replied. "I'm finally telling the truth."
I explained that their biological mother had been unable to care for them, that the system had failed them repeatedly, and that I had gone to court out of my own free will, not obligation.
“Why didn't you ever tell us?” Monica asked, tears welling up in her eyes.
"Because your father asked me to," I replied. "He said you'd never see me as your mother if you knew."
Harold tried to interrupt me, but I stopped him.
“You've censored my life long enough,” I said.
