To My Daughter’s Birth Mother
I think of you often. You are the woman who gave my daughter life; my first child who called me “mommy.”
My sleep is easily disturbed by the alarm as it interrupts my dreams, whether I remember them or not, I know they were there. I wish I could pull the covers back up over my one shoulder that is now chilly and was not a moment ago. But instead, I must rise and do my daily morning duty.
Will I always feel the judgment? Always wrestle with the doubts? Always try to tell myself I did the best I could while wondering if it's true? Will I praise his strengths as innate while blaming myself for his struggles? Does anything in motherhood come without the overwhelming sense that every decision I make has staggering, eternal consequences?