It was a stormy spring day in sixth grade and I was in my last class of the day. I was sitting at a lab table with my friends when my teacher got a call from the office saying my dad was there to pick me up early. This was unexpected, as I would usually go straight to track practice after school. I immediately started running through the list of everything I could have done wrong that would justify why my dad would be picking me up early.

I stepped out into the hallway to go gather my things from my locker, and I was met by my dad already walking in my direction. I immediately asked:

"What'd I do?"

He replied with, "Nothing. Get your stuff. I'm taking you home. Your mom needs to talk to you."

At this point, I'm sweating through my training bra, wondering what could possibly be so important that I would need to leave school early and skip track practice to talk to my mom about.

The five-minute drive from the school to my house felt more like a five-hour drive and as I pressed my dad for more details. He hushed me with a sternness he only used when he needed to be taken extremely seriously. I slumped down in the front seat of his car and held my breath the rest of the way home.

As we arrived, I remember feeling that the walk from the car to the house was the longest and most suspenseful 20 seconds of my 12-year-old life thus far. We stepped inside and my dad said, "Your mom is upstairs."

I trudged up the stairs and found my mother in my bedroom, the room I'd slept in since I was born, the room she brought all of her babies home to. There she was, my mother, who was rarely seen without a full face of makeup and her hair undone, sat bare-faced and alone in sinister silence. The only sound was the thud of the rain against our roof and the pounding of my heart.

"What's going on mom?" I asked as I stepped into the room.

"Sit down, honey."

I sat at the foot of the bed as my mom began to unfold a story that would change the rest of my life.

She revealed to me that once, the summer after her senior year of high school, she made plans to hang out with a girlfriend of hers, and two guys that her friend had recently met. After drinking too much alcohol, as many freshmen in college do, she was taken advantage of and raped by one of the guys she was with.

The word "rape" pierced my heart as she dived deeper into the story.

The day after being raped, she was shaken to core with fear and embarrassment. It was 1982 and a much less progressive time.

She didn't go to the hospital to get a rape kit done.

She didn't report the rape.

She didn't even know the guy who did its last name.

At the time, there was so little knowledge and resources on what to do when sexual assault happens.

She stayed quiet.

Weeks later, my mother came to realize that she was pregnant. She knew exactly who the father was because she was a virgin before the rape. Not knowing the last name of her rapist, and not equipped with today's connectivity of social media, she was forced to ask all around her campus to see if anyone knew who this cretin was. She eventually tracked the piece of trash down and told him he'd gotten her pregnant. His response still infuriates me when I think about it. He implored her to get an abortion.

What do you call someone who makes a conscious, terrible, selfish decision, and then runs away from the repercussions? A coward.

My mother, being the indestructible warrior that she is, decided against an abortion. She determined that she would go through with the pregnancy, and then give the baby up for adoption. Through a Catholic adoption agency, she found a family that was willing to house her for the last three months of the pregnancy, as she had to drop out of school. She moved into a house full of strangers at the most lonesome, terrifying time of her life. I wish I could go back in time and give my mom the biggest hug, then I'd kick her rapist in the balls.

When my mother went into labor, she was made the decision to be sedated, so that she wouldn't really remember the birth at all. She knew that just seeing the baby would be more than her massive heart could take. My mother gave birth to a 7lb. 12.5 oz. baby girl on April 12, 1983. The baby was given to a couple that my mother had selected from a multitude of applicants.

My mom never even saw her face.

After the pregnancy, my mom moved home to live with her parents and soon after she met my dad. They dated for a few years and then got married. They went on to have three daughters of their own, and the rest is history. Though my parents built a beautiful life and raised three happy and healthy daughters, not a day went by when my mother didn't think of the little baby she gave up, all those years ago.

As my mother wrapped her story up, I had a million thoughts going through my mind, but the one that stuck out the most was: why is all of this coming out right now? Well, the baby girl my mother put up for adoption was 27 now and had a life of her own. She went back to the adoption agency my mother had worked with and was making an effort to find her. Apparently, she'd been thinking about my mom just as much as my mom had been thinking about her, and although she had two amazing adopted parents who had given her the world, she always wondered about the woman who carried her in her belly for nine months.

After hearing this story, my head was reeling with all these questions and thoughts, but all I could do was hug my mom. How hard it must have been to go through something so terrible all alone.

After a few months of corresponding through text messages, emails, and phone calls, my mother was finally reunited with the baby she had to part ways with so long ago. The "baby" was now a full grown woman, the spitting image of my gorgeous mother. She had a good job, a loving husband, and two beautiful little girls of her own. My mother's heart was filled to the brim with happiness and relief to see how great of a life this woman, my sister, had.

Over the years, my family has grown closer and closer to my long lost sister. We have a family Christmas party together, we meet for dinner as often as we can, and we have accepted each other as one big, blended family. The memories of pain and sorrow my mom endured when she was 18 may never fully fade, but the reward of finding the little missing puzzle piece of her heart longed for for 27 years was more powerful than any hell she lived in.

There are many lessons I've learned from this entire journey with my family. We could be angry and hurt over the evil, malicious things some people do. We could live in fear of being hurt or mistreated by other people. We could shut ourselves out from the world and lock all of our feelings inside, or we can make a decision to let love in our hearts. We can learn to heal and love together. We can move on from the things that don't serve us. We can move on from the pain. My mother was lost and alone.

She could have very easily said "I can't do this." She could have let the darkness in her life take over her, but she chose to persevere. She chose to push on and learn from her experiences. She chose to let love into her heart, and with that came the hardest thing she ever had to do.

Every single day I count my blessings. I thank God for the struggles and triumphs my family has endured, and I thank God for letting us endure them together. Through them we've laughed, cried, healed, and grown. Though we can't deny what happened to my mom was truly terrible, we also can't deny that finding our long lost sister has been the greatest blessing of all.