After years of infertility, I adopted Mira. My sister, Roya, dismissed her—called her “the baby,” said she wasn’t family. At a cookout, I stepped away briefly. Roya tried to take Mira, saying I “needed rest.” I realized then: this wasn’t help.
It was control. I drew a boundary, refusing gatherings where Mira wasn’t fully seen. The family’s support surprised me. Roya returned, admitted jealousy, and apologized—awkwardly, but honestly. We rebuilt, slowly. Now she shows up, says Mira’s name, calls her “niece.” Love isn’t blood. It’s effort, change, and choosing each other—again and again. That’s how I built my family.
