On my adopted daughter’s fifth birthday, a woman I’d never met showed up at our door and said something that blew apart everything I thought I knew about her, about her past, and about what it really means to be her mom.On my adopted daughter’s fifth birthday, a woman I’d never met showed up at our door and said something that blew apart everything I thought I knew about her, about her past, and about what it really means to be her mom.That line lives in my head on repeat.Before Sophie, my life was doctors and waiting rooms. Blood tests. Ultrasounds. Hormone shots that made me cry on the kitchen floor.

Every month, it was the same: one pink line, trash can full of tests, Daniel sitting beside me on the bathroom tiles saying, “Next month. Maybe.”By 42, I stopped buying pregnancy tests.One night, I stared at the ceiling and said, “I think I’m done.”Daniel rolled toward me. “Done trying?””I’m done hating my own body,” I said. “If I’m supposed to be a mom, it probably won’t be through pregnancy.”He was quiet.”Do you still want to be a mom?” he asked.”Yes,” I said. “More than anything.”He nodded. “Then we stop pretending this is the only way. Let’s talk about adoption. For real.”