Over the last couple months, Marella has been asking me more of her story. She knew that Reagan grew in my tummy and we went to India to get her, and my two happiest days were the days Reagan was born and the day I saw her. But as she got older, she started to want to know more.
“But where did I come from?” she asked me one night at bedtime, over and over again. So I told her when the boys were away at church camp, I would tell her her story.
I wasn’t sure if she would even remember, because knowing I was going to give her answers seemed to placate her, and she stopped asking. But sure enough, the second night they were gone, she was sitting on my lap, and we were just chatting, and all of a sudden she said, “Mama! You said you were going to tell me my story!”
Deep breath.
I started with the very basics, that I was her Mommy, and that I had prayed for her since before she was born, but that she grew in another woman’s belly (she responded with “Cool!”), and that woman couldn’t take care of her, so she did the most loving and kind and thoughtful thing she could do, by taking her to an orphanage where people could love her and take care of her until Daddy and Reagan and I could get to her. I told her that we got there just as fast as we could.
If you know her story (you can read some of it here), you know that isn’t an entirely accurate version, but it’s close enough, at least for a 4-year-old. I asked her if she had any questions, and she said, “But who was my first mommy?” I told her we didn’t know who she was, but that she loved her so much that she took her somewhere she would be safe and loved. Marella asked another version of the question four or five times, wanting to figure out who this mystery woman was whose tummy she grew in, but who didn’t keep her.
Surprisingly, Marella seemed pretty OK with all of it, especially since it was a lot of information she just learned. I reiterated as best as I could, in as many ways as I could, that we didn’t know the woman, but I wish we did because I would love to thank her for the gift of my daughter.
Marella then asked to see pictures of Reagan when he was born, so I scrolled through and found a few on my computer. I showed her one of Reagan being held by Poppy in the hospital, and then I looked at her, and she had tears all over her face, and her bottom lip was quivering.
“But Mama, doesn’t anyone have any pictures of me when I was born?”
Be still my heart.
There was such a pain, an ache, in her voice. I’ll never forget it. It wrecked me then. It wrecks me still.
We cried together for a bit, and I kept telling her, over and over and over, how loved she was, how grateful we were for her, and how much the woman who gave birth to her loved her. She asked me a few more questions, like if she was born in a hospital, if we knew what the woman looked like, etc. I answered them as honestly and straight-forward as I could.
I asked her if she had any more questions. She looked me in the eye, and said, “Mama, will you play Go Fish with me?” To be clear, I hate Go Fish with a passion, and I have never said yes to anything so quickly. And after it was all done, it seemed like a weight had been lifted from her. There was, for her, a bit of a mystery surrounding how we got her, that had been answered.
I’ve thought so often since then about her tears, and her wanting to know if anyone had pictures of her. (My husband later remembered we had some early pictures sent to us when we were matched by our adoption agency, so we showed them to her). Wasn’t she asking what all of us ask? Do I matter? Did someone always love me? I’ll never forget the pain in her cries, and the maturity in the question.
“But Mama, doesn’t anyone have any pictures of me when I was born?”
Did anyone know me? Did anyone love me? Did I matter?
She cries often, frankly – over a lost toy or a perceived injustice if she doesn’t get what she wants or something similar – but this was different. This was so raw and so deep, so innocent yet so very much aware.
Adoption is never without great loss, even in the very best of circumstances. Every adoption story begins with a severing of something crucial – a bloodline. Every adoption story, even the best ones, begin with a massive, massive loss. A mother who is too poor, too ill, too young, too addicted to care for her child. A father who is unwilling to bear the responsibility. A family too unstable. A child with too many medical needs. And the list could go on and on.
Yet adoption is also redemption. A great loss turned into the greatest gift. While Marella’s life might have begun in the very most tragic of circumstances, that loss turned into one of my very, very, very greatest blessings.
How close the world was to missing the gift of her.
I’ve said it before, but I cringe when people say that what we did – adopting a child – is “amazing.” Or even great. Or good.
Adoption is Biblical.
All of our stories – every. single. one. – began with a great loss, and a great redemption. Marella’s heartfelt cry is the cry we all have asked, and still ask.
Do I matter?
Does my life count?
Does anyone love me?
Will someone always love me?
I’m sure she will have more questions as she gets older, and I’m sure we’ll have more twists and turns to navigate. For now, we will continue to remind her how much we love her, how much we wanted her, and how much she matters.
For the record, if you’re reading this, you matter too.
