“My baby,” she says as she sobs. “I’m giving away my baby.”
I stand back, crying and taking in her natural ease with the baby we have named Celia.
“Sometimes in life,” she says, wiping her tears, “you have to do things that are hard.”
The following Saturday we take the baby to Wal-Mart with Sonya and her daughter to have portraits made. She promises to send us half and keep half. The photos arrive a few weeks after we return home. My favorite is of Celia with Sonya’s daughter. I hope they can have a relationship down the road, but with open adoption there are no certainties, only intentions.
One day, a few days after sending Sonya some photos, I return home to a phone message from her. She says she misses Celia, and she compliments Jason and me on the great job we are doing. I plan to save that message forever. For Celia. For me.
I don’t pretend to know the depth of Sonya’s grief. There is no way I could. I want to understand adoption from her side, but I can only wonder.
I don’t know what happened with Katie, Gia, and Christine, whether they are missing the baby they didn’t keep or marveling over their newborn’s rapid growth like I am. With adoption, whether domestic or international, there is so much wondering, so many unknowns.
What I do know is that I’m this baby’s mommy. This chubby, happy, gorgeous baby. Every morning when I lift her out of her crib, that still amazes me.
