Today, I say good-bye to my daughter, forever.
Three months ago, I went to the hospital expecting a baby, as all mothers do. When she was placed in my arms, I took one look at her and loved her, as all mothers do. I left the hospital with her bundled safely in her car seat, brimming with pride and joy and worry and love, as all mothers do.
For three months I comforted her as she cried and smiled as she cooed, as all mothers do. I fed her and changed her and rocked her to sleep, as all mothers do. I carried her in my heart and my prayers and my arms, as all mothers do.
But I am not “all mothers.” I’m her foster mother.
Which means that after three months of the tasks that “all mothers” share, I took on the responsibilities — the burdens and privileges — that only a foster mother knows.