To the Woman Who Gave Birth to my Kids

To my Kids’ Birth Mother,

It may seem strange to say that I admire you, but I do. Without ever meeting me, you entrusted me to raise your three children.

I can’t imagine how difficult life was for you. I was told you faced addiction, mental health diagnosis, and an extended family who did not buoy you. I can’t imagine not having a support system to step in when things got tough. I am sorry you went through this.

I can’t fathom how much it must have ripped your heart out to say, to admit, that your children would be better taken care of by someone else. To know, deep down, that it was in their best interest. You loved them deeply and tried so hard to keep them all together. If I was in your shoes, I am not sure I would be that selfless.

You gave birth and raised them for the first few years of their lives. They remember and adore you. Now, as adults, they are able to see that you did your best . . . and so do I.

It must have ripped your heart apart when the social workers took the family to a restaurant for your final good-bye meal with your handsome eight-year-old boy and your beautiful seven- and six-year-old girls, when it was explained that they would no longer see you again. My gut wrenches at the tears and agony that you must have experienced.

But you were strong. I don’t know if I could have done it. I respect your courage.

I want you to know that I took this charge seriously, these three. But I also failed at times, too. I have regrets. I relive situations that I wish I had handled better, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I was only twenty-six at the time when I took on these three beautiful children. But please know that I, too, did the best I could.

They are adults now, and good ones! They are the best people I am lucky enough to know. They are in their thirties, two of them with children of their own. And, we are close. Very close. We all live within one kilometer of each other.

I realize that the four of you were like plants who had outgrown the space of a pot, too close, strangling each other with your roots. You needed to be transplanted and separated in order to be healthy, in order to grow. It wasn’t a choice, it was a necessity. I want you to know that I know and understand that.

I know that the kids and you have connected online and have come to know the missing pieces and information that, although painful, was necessary for closure. I know there is the occasional email or Happy Birthday or Merry Christmas wished from time to time. But I also know I was the one privileged the be there, to raise them, to witness the graduations, the weddings, to be allowed the tentacles of attachment, of lasting communion and permanent connection. And for this, I also thank you.

I have heard that you moved away, got much better, and forged a new and better path for yourself. I am told that you are in a positive relationship and learned how to drive and found independence and self-sufficiency. I knew you could do it! And I am proud of you.

I absolutely knew you could do it. I knew that you had it in you to turn your life around, to find happiness, and to experience life the way it was intended to be lived. How did I know this? How could I be so incredibly sure?

The answer is simple: I know your children, your babies, your offspring—maybe even better than you do. And, they are amazing, resilient, and beautiful beings, so therefore I knew you were, too.