Personal Narrative-Not In The Anne Of Green Gables

When I was six, I was adopted. Not in the Anne of Green Gables kind of way, although ironically my middle name was named after her, or any other horrifying foster home route that most people think of when they hear that word. Nor was it some dramatic experience at the time. In fact, I remember being bored waiting in the judge’s office while the adults signed papers. Instead, my father left before I was born and I was half-adopted; one father’s name was wiped off my birth certificate and replaced by another.
A common occurrence whenever I tell someone about my unique family situation is being asked if I am mad at my biological father for leaving. To their surprise, each and every time I have responded with a simple “no.” After all, I had a