I was six years old when I met the Lincolm family.
I remember everything clearly, the day my quiet world shifted from a small, hidden life into a life I was never meant to belong to.
My father, the only thing my mother ever told me about when I asked was his name, Sergio Lincolm—came for me one bright morning at the orphanage.
My mother had brought me there a year before she died of cancer. At first, I didn't understand why she left me in a place filled with children my age who didn't have parents. The only thing I remembered was her promise, that she would come back for me together with my father.
But that day never came. I later heard that she had passed away, and the father I had never met never came for me either. That was when I realized I was alone just like the other children in the orphanage.
I was outside, playing in the garden, completely unaware that everything was about to change.
