When my husband and I brought our adopted daughter Mitzi home from China, I imagined our first days together would be joyful and calm. Instead, our very first morning turned into one of the scariest experiences of my life. Only two weeks earlier, in Yangzhou, Mitzi had been placed in our arms for the first time. She was 14 months old, full of energy, and immediately captured our hearts. I had once worried that I might not feel an instant connection because I had never been pregnant and hadn’t thought much about motherhood until later in life. In my late thirties, however, the desire to be a mother struck suddenly and deeply. By then, the chance of having a biological child had passed, so my husband and I chose international adoption. Because of my Asian heritage, we felt drawn to China, and when we met Mitzi, it felt like she was always meant to be ours.
Those two weeks in China were almost magical. We spent our days visiting the Social Welfare Institute where she had been cared for since birth, meeting the kind caretakers who had loved her, and seeing the tiny crib that had been her first home. It was moving to know how much attention she had received before we arrived. Between adoption appointments, we explored parks, temples, and shops, where I couldn’t resist buying her armfuls of tiny shoes. Mitzi loved watermelon, peek-a-boo, and being sung to, and we found ourselves falling in love with her more each day. What surprised us most was how active she already was. The photos we had been given months earlier showed her as an 11-month-old, but by the time we met her at 14 months, she was running everywhere. On the flight home, she slept soundly in my arms, and I felt she was bringing new hope and healing into my life after years of disappointments.
But our peaceful joy was short-lived. On our very first morning at home in Los Angeles, while I was on hold with the pediatrician’s office, Mitzi toddled off toward the basement stairs. My husband was also distracted, chatting with his sister about how thrilled we were to be back. In just those few seconds, we both took our eyes off her. The sound of her tiny body hitting the wooden steps—bump after bump—still haunts me. Then came the silence, followed by her terrified screams. I rushed to the doorway and saw her crumpled at the bottom, her face blotchy and wet with tears. Panic consumed me. Should I pick her up? Should I call 911? Was she seriously hurt? Living on a narrow canyon road, I feared an ambulance might not reach us quickly enough, and I froze.
My husband stayed calmer than I did. He crouched by her, looking into her eyes for signs of a concussion, and then urged that we drive her straight to the emergency room. Somehow, I managed to buckle her into the car seat, though my nerves were unraveling so badly that I sat in the front instead of beside her. By the time we arrived at Cedars-Sinai, I was drenched in sweat, unable to think straight, and convinced we had failed as parents. While waiting for the doctor, my guilt grew heavier. I blamed myself for not childproofing the house, for letting her out of my sight, for being careless during such a fragile time. I even feared that child services might take her away, that we didn’t deserve to keep her, that my incompetence had ruined our chance to be a family.
When the doctor finally returned, he told us Mitzi was fine. Not a single injury. His words, “toddlers bounce,” were delivered with compassion, and the relief nearly knocked me over. No one came to take her away, and we drove home with our daughter safe and sound. Yet even seventeen years later, I still carry the guilt of that morning. Mitzi, of course, doesn’t remember it. Today she is a bright, strong young woman who has graduated high school and is eager to explore her own path. Watching her grow has been one of the greatest joys of my life.
What has helped me find peace is something I learned through the adoption process: the belief in an invisible red thread. The idea is that people who belong together are tied by an unseen cord that nothing can break not distance, not time, not even mistakes. I feel that thread binding me to Mitzi through every stage of her life: through her fall down the stairs, through challenges in our marriage, through the arrival of a second child, through the struggles of adolescence, and now through her growing independence. Parenting is never perfect. We all stumble, sometimes in frightening ways. But love, commitment, and that invisible connection endure. If there is one lesson I hold onto, it is this: as parents, we must learn to forgive ourselves. Mistakes don’t sever the bond between us and our children. They only remind us how strong that bond truly is.
