When everyone else turned away from an orphaned little girl fighting cancer, I made the choice to stay and adopt her. What I didn’t realize at the time was how love has a mysterious way of coming back around, often in ways you never expect. For years, I faced the same questions over and over again — at family gatherings, work parties, and from strangers who felt entitled to know my personal life. “Are you married? Do you have kids?” each time bringing a painful sting that I tried to hide behind a polite smile.
Every time, I responded, “No. Just me.” But what I never shared was the true cost of that answer — the countless nights I cried myself to sleep, the baby showers I attended with a fake smile while my heart quietly broke a little more inside. I am 48 now, and while I have made peace with being alone — or at least learned how to pretend I have — I still wonder why it hurts so much every time someone asks about my life. When I was younger, I imagined a very different life for myself. I pictured noisy Saturday mornings with pancakes burning on the stove, tiny socks disappearing mysteriously in the laundry, crayon drawings covering the refrigerator, and a house filled with chaos, laughter, and unconditional love. But then the doctors delivered a devastating truth: my body would never be able to carry a child.
