When I was 15, I was struggling with a lot of my family and feeling very alone.  I very much felt like they forgot me.  Just before my 16th birthday, I met a man. Not a guy my age, or even a bit older. He was a full-grown, over-thirty husband and father.  I lacked the confidence and sense to know I was being played a fool.  He said all the things a young girl whose feeling neglected wants to hear.  We started “dating”.  And by dating, I mean, we would meet up, he would do what he wanted, then go home.  I was so messed up, I thought it was love.  

Less than 60 days in, I found myself pregnant.  I had only one option.  I did not believe in abortion, and I knew my family would never support me keeping the baby.  Adoption was my only choice.  I researched local adoption agencies but wasn’t happy with the options.  I contacted an adult I knew and respected, confiding my situation.  I ended my tearful confession and plea for help telling my parents with “I just wish you and your husband wanted to adopt because you would be perfect parents for my baby.”  She hugged and comforted me and made sure I was ok.  

The next time I saw her, she told me that she had something to share, but that I should not feel any obligation or pressure.  It turns out, she and her husband had been trying to adopt.  I didn’t even need her to finish the statement.  I said, “if you will have him, I would like you to be my baby’s parents.”

From that first moment, it felt right.  They were amazing.  They didn’t just check up on the baby, who we found out was a boy.  They made sure I was ok, had everything I needed, and mostly that I was secure in my decision and knew that if I changed my mind, they would understand.  

When he was born, I was amazed that he looked like his new parents.  He had a fair complexion, blond hair, and blue eyes.  They were out of town the day he was born but arrived at the hospital the next day.  They allowed me as much time as I wanted with him.  They welcomed my family into
meet him.  Then, after four days, we went home.  

The hospital had a policy that babies had to be carried out by their mother in a wheelchair.  I still think that was the cruelest moment of the entire process.  We got just outside the door of the hospital and I had to hand him over and leave him.  I had to watch them take my baby, who was now their baby, home.

About a month after he was born, his mom brought him to see me.  He was the spitting image of his mother.  Down to a dimple just below the corner of his mouth on the left side.  It showed me that I was just an instrument for God to get him to his parents.  It humbled me to think God trusted me with that responsibility.  I promised him then and there that I would wait to become a mother, but when I did, I would do everything I could to be the best mom I could.

It has been years since that first visit.  Over the years, I have had pictures, updates, but have done my best to let his family have peace.  I am a mother now.  My child is a great blessing, whom I thank God for daily.  My firstborn, who then went to his real mother, is nearly a quarter century old.  His mother passed not long ago and I grieved with them.  He knows who I am, knows of my child, and is even a Facebook friend, as is his father.  We have talked about how the adoption affected us both.  

I recently sent him his memory box- pictures of him with my family, the hospital bands, a VHS with his ultrasounds, and other items for the brief time I was his mother.  He was amazed that I kept them.  He knows how much I love him and agrees that I made the best decision.  He also agrees that he was meant to be with his parents.  He is the spitting image of his father but with hair the color of his mom.  
So, as you see, my journey to motherhood started as a rocky path, but quickly transitioned to miracles and blessings all along.  I am proud of who he is, not because I was responsible for his upbringing, but because I did what was the hardest thing I could ever do and that allowed him the best life possible.

-Anonymous