We hired a quiet young nanny named Mirela. My son Zaid, seven, adored her instantly. Then I found a laminated photo of him in her bag. On the back, she’d written: “My brother.”
She told me her sister had vanished years ago after being sent to work in the UK—pregnant and alone. Mirela had searched ever since and found hospital records of a baby boy born the same day as Zaid. A DNA test confirmed it: 99.8% match. She was his aunt.
She never wanted to take him—only to know him. Over time, she became family. Zaid calls her “almost-auntie.”
Later we learned the agency that arranged Zaid’s adoption was linked to the same group that trafficked her sister. A letter arrived soon after:
“He was never meant to be discarded. Thank you for giving him the life his mother never got.”
Now, when Zaid draws his family tree, he adds a branch for Mirela.
“That’s my branch that grew back,” he says.
Sometimes family isn’t born—it’s found again.
