I wasn’t there the day my son was born.
On no other day of the year is this fundamental truth so striking. He had, or maybe still has, another mother, the one who was there the day he was born.
While I’m conscious of this a lot of the time, that my son was given his life by another woman, his face is as familiar to me as if I’d dreamt him in a dream before he was conceived. At the same time, he can seem a stranger to me and I often wonder, like many people who see us together, what accident of fate made us related.
He was 21 months old when he came to this country and to our family. When my husband, exhausted after traveling a very long day from Nicaragua, handed me our new son, it was if God himself had decided to find me a child…
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