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On my adopted daughter’s fifth birthday, a woman I’d never met showed up at our door and said something that blew apart everything I thought I knew about her, about her past, and about what it really means to be her mom.
I adopted a little girl, and on her fifth birthday, her biological mother knocked on our door and said, “You need to know a terrible secret about her.”
Before Sophie, my life was doctors and waiting rooms. Blood tests. Ultrasounds.
Hormone shots that made me cry on the kitchen floor.
Every month, it was the same: one pink line, trash can full of tests, Daniel sitting beside me on the bathroom tiles saying, “Next month. Maybe.”
By 42, I stopped buying pregnancy tests.
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