“A baby is born with a need to be loved - and never outgrows it.” I heard this quote two months ago, and I have scrutinized it since. I am now seventeen years old, and I still have no idea who my real parents are. I have pictured what they might look like. Maybe they’re astute millionaires in the vineyards of Italy. Or maybe they’re nefarious villains who steal and kill for a living. Whoever they may be doesn’t matter as much to me now. I have a family, a home, and people to love.
I was given up for adoption immediately after my birth. I grew up next to kids who were there one day, and adopted the next. Nothing was stable in my childhood. I never knew what the next day would bring. My friends left eventually, so why should I try to build a relationship with anyone? Don’t get me wrong, the adults who ran the orphanage were amicable, but it wasn’t the same as having your own mother tuck you in every night.

As I grew older, I knew the chances of my adoption lessened. I have no idea why no one wanted me as a baby, but I was getting scared no one ever would. When parents would come in to look at children, I would try to advocate for myself. I put a grin on my face, politely said hello, and it was ineffectual. The situation was vexatious and hurtful. All I wanted was to have a family. I didn’t think that was too much for a ten year old to ask.
As the weeks passed, I began to loath waking up to disappointment every morning. I could no longer try and solicit these parents into taking me in. I didn’t have the mental strength to do it. But on December 13, 2002, my day came. It was finally my turn. A woman named Victoria walked in. She had light brown hair, a gentle smile, and a nervous glint in her eyes. I later learned she has a malady which does not allow her to conceive a child. Her dream was to have a baby, and she was unable. If babies are such a miracle, why did my parents leave me? These thoughts had left me bitter. I ignored her, assuming she was just like the rest. I sat in the corner table, focusing on my juice and pretzels. To my surprise, she approached me. We began to talk, laugh, and share our thoughts. Right there, I knew she would be my new mother.
It’s been seventeen years, and I still wonder why my mother didn’t want me. Why she had a child, but gave it all away. One day, I may ask her myself. Right now, I have a loving mother who has helped me through everything from school drama to getting ready for college. She is the one who affected my life the most and she didn’t even give birth to me. She gave me a warm place to sleep, a happy home to live in, and someone to love. She’s my stability. Thanks to her, I love my life, and I can finally live it.