My baby has another mama.
Her first mama, her birth mama. Her grew-her and knew-her mama.
I think of this mama often, especially when I pass the hospital where her heart broke, and my heart broke open, and a baby girl was born.
We’re not so different, her and I.
We were little girls once, with hopes and dreams. And then hopes deferred and dreams crushed. And resilience, and hope, and bravery, and loving on. I admire her strength, carrying on with a beautiful smile.
We carried babies we didn’t raise. We live with heartache and joy and heartache and joy. We stand, misunderstood by many.
We share love. Her love spans the miles between us. Our daughter knows her love.
Some people may think that she chose adoption because she didn’t care. But really it’s because she did care. Selflessly choosing us to raise her sweet baby girl, and even sharing in our joy as the months go on.
She didn’t expect this path. She was a little girl once, with hopes and dreams.