The next day, we met with hospital administration. They apologized and promised to search deeper into archived files. While waiting, my sister and I walked through the park we grew up in, memories flooding back—proof that nothing about our relationship had changed. “If I have biological relatives out there, I’d like to know,” she said, “but they won’t replace my real family.”
A week later, the hospital confirmed an administrative error likely occurred during the evacuation. They offered support if we chose to pursue answers. But as we sat together—my parents, my sister, and me—we realized the truth clearly: biology explains origins, but family is built through years of love, life, and shared moments. And nothing—not a mix-up or a missing record—could rewrite that.
