I Adopted a Child After Promising God, but 17 Years Later She Hurt Me Deeply
A desire not just to give life, but to nurture it, to hold someone who would call me “Mom,” to watch a child grow and shape the world alongside me.
Yet, as time passed, the dream was met with heartbreak. Miscarriage after miscarriage stole my hope, leaving a hollow ache in its place, a quiet grief that no one could see but that defined the rhythm of my days.
We tried to speak carefully to one another, choosing words as cautiously as one might step across a creaking floorboard in an old house.
At night, we curled beside each other in our bed, holding hands without words, letting silence carry the weight of our grief.
I watched other women celebrate pregnancies, holding their ultrasound photos like treasures, and each time, a stab of emptiness struck me so sharp I sometimes feared it would never fade.
It was during one of those days, sitting in the parking lot of the fertility clinic, that I noticed a young woman stepping out, clutching her ultrasound image with a face aglow in joy.
My chest ached in a way I could not articulate; I had already shed all the tears my body could muster, and yet I felt a profound emptiness that left me silent, drained, and numb.
Months passed, and the cycle of hope and disappointment continued. “We can take a break,” John said one evening, his hands gently resting on my shoulders, thumbs tracing soft circles of reassurance.
“I don’t want a break. I want a baby,” I whispered back, my voice trembling. There was no argument, only understanding, because words were insufficient to capture the depth of longing, of desperation, of love waiting to pour into life.
I remember folding tiny baby clothes for the third miscarriage, unable to resist the impulse to buy them on sale. I held a soft onesie with a little yellow duck on the front when the familiar, crushing warmth of loss enveloped me. Continue reading…
