The clock on the hospital wall made it clear my time was up.
“Goodbye, sweet girl,” I whispered through tears, swaddling my baby one last time. I studied every tiny detail her fingers, toes, soft belly, and spiky black hair holding the image in my heart. Before long, I would be walking out of the hospital alone, without her.
Months earlier, two pink lines had appeared on a pregnancy test. I was a junior in college, in a committed relationship but not married, without a steady income. I loved my baby already, but I wanted her to have more than I could give. After months of agonizing, my boyfriend and I chose semi-closed adoption. We selected a couple who lived out of state, hoping they would give her the life we dreamed for her.
At the hospital, I kissed her forehead. My boyfriend stood quietly in the corner, wiping away tears. The adoption worker came in. “The adoptive parents are on their way,” she said. My heart broke. I told my daughter, “I will always love you,” and walked away wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake.
Years passed. I married my high school sweetheart, her birth father, and together we had three sons.
I began mentoring birth mothers, offering the support I had once needed. One young woman I mentored, a family friend, was facing an unplanned pregnancy. She eventually asked me, “Will you adopt my baby boy?” My heart leapt. My husband and I had wanted to grow our family, and we said yes.
When our son was born, his birth mother placed him in my arms and asked me to tell him she loved him. She gave him a stuffed monkey, which he still cuddles at night. My boys adored their new brother, and my heart was full, but I still thought of my daughter.
Then, when she was twelve, she called: “Can I visit?” That weekend, we played, shopped, and talked for hours. We stayed in touch until she turned eighteen, when her adoptive parents suddenly cut ties, forcing her to choose between them and us. They disowned her. My heart broke again.
My husband suggested re-adopting her. She agreed. At the hearing, she wore teal, the boys wore khakis, and she called me “Mom.” It was the sweetest sound.
Today, I’m mom to five, one adult daughter, three teen sons, and one adopted son. I can’t erase the years I missed, but I treasure the moments we have now. My son has a loving relationship with his birth family, my boys adore their sister, and I have learned that life doesn’t always go as planned but it can still become something beautiful.
