Every night, we sit on the porch wrapped in blankets, gazing at the stars she loves. She leans on my shoulder and whispers, “Do you think they can see us?”
It’s been three years now. Lila is 13, healthy, and full of life. The garden blooms year-round. On the living room wall, the letter from her parents is framed and cherished, a daily reminder of the love that surrounds her. Sometimes, I pass by her room at night and see her asleep under glow-in-the-dark stars we stuck to her ceiling. Her blue scarf lies on the chair — untouched for months because she doesn’t need it anymore. I used to think I had missed my chance at motherhood. That life had decided it wasn’t meant for me. But maybe, I was just waiting for the right child — one who would teach me that motherhood isn’t about biology. It’s about showing up. About love that never quits, even when life gets hard. Lila was born twice — once into this world, and once into my heart. Both times, she was absolutely perfect.
