ADVERTISEMENT
I wanted to be a mother more than anything, and for years that desire shaped every corner of my life. My husband and I moved carefully through a cycle of hope and loss that left our home quiet and heavy. Each disappointment felt harder than the last, until one night I found myself alone, exhausted, and searching for meaning in the silence. In that moment of desperation, I made a promise rooted in love rather than certainty: if I were ever given the chance to be a mother, I would open my heart wider than I had imagined. That promise stayed with me when, against all odds, our daughter Stephanie was born—healthy, loud, and full of life. Joy filled our home, but so did a quiet awareness that love, once discovered, doesn’t like to remain contained.
On Stephanie’s first birthday, we took a second step into parenthood and adopted Ruth, a tiny baby who entered our family with a stillness that contrasted sharply with her sister’s bold energy. We never hid the truth of Ruth’s adoption. From the beginning, we explained it simply and lovingly, and for years the girls accepted it without question. Yet as they grew, their differences became more pronounced.
ADVERTISEMENT
