When I became pregnant at twenty-one
years old, I assumed I would have the baby and become a parent. Despite having
a less than reliable boyfriend, despite poverty, addiction, and lack of
knowledge, I would become a mom. My older sister had done it. My younger cousin
too. In fact, a look at my extended family revealed that most of my similarly
aged female relatives had become single parents. So, when the baby-daddy
bailed, I figured: I got this.
But, through three months of counseling
during my second and third trimester, I took a deep dive into my past, present,
and potential future and realized, with horror and self-loathing, that the deck
was stacked against me. Sure, I could have a baby and fumble through being a
parent, but would that be fair? Fair to my child? Fair to me?
In the end, I chose to place my son
for adoption. But looking back, had ‘open adoption’ not been available, I would
have instead opted to parent. Having the ability to exert influence over who would
be selected made all the difference. At the time I felt powerless, so when the
counselor said I could pick the parents, I latched onto it with desperation and
hope. Finally, something I could control. And a way for me to shift my focus away
from fear for the future to the potential of a better life for my child.
I allowed myself to fantasize about
what the perfect family would look like. Visions of sprawling homes in wealthy
neighborhoods, international travel, private schools. All things I’d seen on TV
but never experienced in real life. From those dreams, a list of qualifications
emerged: mid-thirties, stay-at-home mom, affluence, to name a few. And from
this fantasy list, the adoption agency presented me a stack of folders showcasing
the lives of couples longing for a child.
But how does one go about choosing a
stranger to take over THE MOST IMPORTANT job in the world?
In the end, it came down to a gut feeling.
David’s letter, the only one
hand-written, seemed to have been composed specifically for me. In it, he presented
a kind and caring attitude, displayed vulnerability, and addressed every topic
of importance. In later years, I would even wonder if he’d seen my list before
composing his letter, so spot-on were his words.
I now know he wasn’t perfect. Regardless, I am grateful. Grateful David was searching for a child at the same time I was struggling with the knowledge that I was incapable of raising one. Grateful he succeeded in raising a boy to become a gentle man. And especially grateful for his willingness to share my journey through grief of his loss a second time.
