My husband was kind and patient, but I could see the quiet fear in his eyes every time I said, “Maybe next time.”
One night, after my fifth miscarriage, I sat on the bathroom floor and prayed out loud for the first time in my life.
“Dear God,” I whispered, “if You give me a child… I promise I’ll save one too. If I become a mom, I will give a home to a child who has none.”
Ten months later, I was holding my newborn daughter, Stephanie.
She was perfect. Pink, loud, alive.
I never forgot my promise.
On Stephanie’s first birthday, while balloons floated in our living room and cake frosting smeared her tiny hands, we signed the final adoption papers for a baby girl named Ruth.
She had been abandoned on Christmas Eve, left near the city’s main Christmas tree, wrapped in a thin blanket with no note.
From that day on, I had two daughters.
Stephanie was bold and confident. Ruth was quiet, observant, deeply sensitive. They were different, but my love for them never was.
I packed the same lunches. I kissed the same scraped knees. I sat through the same school plays and late-night talks.
Years passed.
Seventeen of them.
The night before Ruth’s prom, I stood in the doorway of her room, holding my phone, ready to take pictures.
She didn’t look at me.
“MOM,” she said quietly, “YOU ARE NOT COMING TO MY PROM.”
I smiled, confused. “What? Of course I am.”
She finally turned toward me. Her eyes were red, her jaw tight.
“No,” she said. “You’re NOT. And after prom… I’m leaving.”
My heart stopped.
“Leaving? Why?” I asked.
She swallowed. “Stephanie told me THE TRUTH ABOUT YOU.”
The room went cold.
“What truth?” I whispered.
