It was Pam’s 20th birthday, and I had everything ready—cake, balloons, memories. I thought the knock on the door was her. Instead, a tearful stranger asked for my daughter.

She introduced herself only as someone needing to speak with Pam. I let her in, uneasy but curious. Moments later, Pam arrived, full of birthday joy—until she saw the woman.

“I’m your mother,” the woman said. Pam froze.

I handed Pam a folder—adoption papers I’d meant to reveal that day. The woman, Marlene, explained she’d been in a coma since giving birth after a car crash.

Pam fled, devastated. Hours later, she returned, eyes swollen.

To Marlene, she said, “I don’t hate you. Let’s get to know each other.”

To me: “You’re my mom. That won’t change.”

We sat together, cake untouched, hands joined. Pam looked at us and said, “We don’t have to pick just one. Let’s move forward. Together.”