I grew up in a loving foster family. My parents celebrated my birthday every year on August 6th, just as the paperwork said—cakes, photos, and quiet joy. I never questioned it, though somewhere deep inside, something always felt slightly misaligned. Years ago, a caretaker at the orphanage once whispered that I’d been born on August 5th, not the 6th. I never brought it up again, but the thought stayed with me, like a bookmark pressed into my life.

I rarely thought about it as an adult—until the day before my birthday, when a small package appeared on my doorstep. No return address. Just four words written neatly on top: Do not open until August 5th.

No one acknowledged that date. No one except my foster mother, who had passed away the year before, and who always paused before saying my birthday aloud.

On the morning of August 5th, I opened the box. Inside was a faded photograph of a woman holding a newborn, and a handwritten letter. The resemblance was unmistakable. The letter explained that the writer was my biological aunt. My birth mother had died shortly after delivery, and in the chaos, one day had been lost in the records.

She didn’t ask for contact. Only that I finally know.

Nothing about my childhood changed—my foster parents were still my parents in every way that mattered. But something inside me settled.

On August 6th, I celebrated as always.
On August 5th, I lit a candle—grateful for the truth that found me when I was ready.