Whatever corruption existed at the facility, my adoption itself had been legitimate.
I listened.
Then I asked the question that hurt the most.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mom’s face crumpled.
She explained that when I was little, they had been advised to wait until I was old enough to understand.
So they waited.
Then, when I was old enough, she became afraid.
She kept imagining the perfect moment.
My tenth birthday passed.
Then my eleventh.
Then my twelfth.
Every year gave her another excuse.
Not today.
Not yet.
Eventually, telling me became harder precisely because she had waited so long.
“Were you afraid I would leave?” I asked.
She didn’t avoid the question.
“Yes.”
Her voice broke.
“I was terrified that if you knew, you might look at me differently. That you might go searching for something else and stop seeing me as your mother.”
She squeezed my hand.
