My Foster Parents Kicked Me Out on the Morning of My 18th Birthday, I Was Desperate Until a Stranger Slipped a Key into My Hand — Story of the Day

On the morning I turned eighteen, my foster parents told me to pack my things and leave.

Paul and Karen had taken me in when I was ten. They called me their daughter, promised I belonged. I believed them—right up until my birthday. Instead of a gift, Paul handed me an empty travel bag and told me to fill it with my belongings. They said they couldn’t afford me anymore. Their son’s college came first.

By afternoon, I was standing on the street with nowhere to go.

I wandered until I reached the train station, clutching my bag and trying not to panic. In the crowd, a man bumped into me. When I bent to pick up my things, I realized he’d slipped a key into my hand. Attached was a keychain with an address engraved on it.

With nothing left to lose, I followed it.

Behind iron gates stood a large white house. The key worked. Inside, everything was warm and ready—food, clean rooms, even clothes in my size. On the table was a note: I’ll be there in the morning. Feel at home.

The next day, I woke to pancakes and coffee. Two women were in the kitchen. One introduced herself as my grandmother. The other—the one who had given me the key—was my mother.

She had been young and afraid. She thought giving me up was love.

And standing there, wrapped in her arms, I finally understood something simple and powerful:

I hadn’t been abandoned.

I had been found.