For him, I was only meant to be “a relative who raised him.” In his mind, my late great-aunt was to remain the true mother.

She herself had never been able to build a family or have children – after her, there had to be an heir, her “own child through me.”

And it was precisely this child – not me – who was meant to inherit everything after my death.

I sat there with the letter in my hands, barely able to breathe. Two paths lay before me, both filled with pain.

To accept her conditions meant giving up the right to be called mother by my own child, voluntarily surrendering a part of myself, hiding the truth, living in constant lies.