I have a story to tell. It’s not a short one, but this is the beginning. I’m the inquisitive type. Stubborn. Both emotional and logical. At three days old I met my parents. My father wore a blue suit with a yellow tie. My mother laid me on her stomach in the hotel room and I smiled up at her when her tummy rumbled. She always said, “You may not have grown under my heart, but you grew in it.” I knew that I was loved. Always. A few times in elementary school I was teased about being adopted. “Your mom must not have loved you. That’s why she gave you up. That’s why nobody likes you.” It never bothered me. I laughed at them. My mom always made sure my brother and I knew that we were chosen. We were never mistakes. They prayed for us for years. That never stopped me from being curious. Where did I come from? What was my story? Did I look like someone out there? Do I have biological siblings? What’s the strength of nature vs. nurture? Did she care about me? Did she want to meet me? She’s like me, I know it. She’ll want to meet me. Prepare for the worst. Protect your heart. She might not be what you think. She may not want you. She might be a drug addict. She might be dead. She’s not your family. You have a family. Family doesn’t have to be blood. Family is a bond. Where does she live? I love you, daddy. I love you, mommy. You are my angels. Thank you for this life. Thank you for everything. Thank you for picking me. Thank you for loving me, even when I don’t deserve your pureness. I love you. Do you know how much I love you? Does she have my eyes? Does she want to meet me? Read More:
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