My life had finally settled—successful business, peaceful routine, and a sense of calm. Then, on a rainy Tuesday, an old, unmarked package arrived. Inside was a photo of a baby with a birthmark just like mine, a picture of a house labeled “Willow Creek,” and a letter saying the box had been left for me at the orphanage, only recently rediscovered.

I grew up in foster care—no real family, no past. This changed everything. I became obsessed with finding that house. Years later, an investigator found it: overgrown, remote, but unmistakable. Inside was a cradle, an old photo of a woman and baby, and a letter from my birth mother. She loved me but was too sick to care for me.

I restored the house. It took a year. I kept the cradle and framed the photo. For the first time ever, I felt at home—not just in a place, but in my own story.