As I write this, a social worker is meeting with a young mother.
In the next hour or so, she might decide who will raise the son she is carrying. She will look at glossy pictures of me, of Richy, of our happy, safe home. What must she be thinking? Part of me wants to try to stop her, to say, “Don’t you know how much you’ll miss him? His first teeth, his first steps… take your baby and run!”
I have spent six years trying not to think too hard about the children I’ve lost, reaching milestones in heaven (if it works that way). If I had been given the choice, in 2004, I don’t know what I might have been willing to give up, to have them, to keep them.
It’s not the same. I know that. I know some women are not ready, or willing, or able to parent their children. Still, it’s a hard thing to process.
If she chooses us, so much gain for us. So much loss for her, for the baby who will miss the sound of her voice, the essence of his mother.
In the purest part of me, at least, I think it’s from a pure place, I hope she wins. I hope she becomes everything she thinks she can’t be, that she finds Jesus and life and hope, and wins.