My parents abandoned me at 7, and I spent years bouncing through foster homes feeling unwanted—until one foster mom, Maggie, told me I wasn’t a burden. Twelve years later, she found me and handed me a folder with my name written in purple ink. Inside was a house deed. She had saved it for me, believing I deserved a real start. Moving into that little cottage changed everything. Maggie stayed in my life, giving me photos she’d kept of us, helping me rebuild my past, and even guiding me when my biological parents—now clean and trying to make amends—reached out. Slowly, I let them in.
But then Maggie was diagnosed with stage-four cancer. I stayed by her side until the end. She left me her home and a note saying I’d been her light. I turned her house into “Maggie’s Place,” a home for girls aging out of foster care. My parents help run it. My cottage is still yellow, still mine, and still filled with the love she gave me. I learned that family isn’t always blood—sometimes it’s the person who shows up when no one else does.
