Her sweet mama was there immediately. Kneeling beside her baby girl, her face flush with love and pride for the little one sitting next to her.
I felt as if time had stopped...
She took the book that her daughter held out to her and read the title, her voice betraying her full heart.
My heart constricted, my voice gone, my eyes stinging with tears held back...
Her precious little one watched her intently. Eyes on her mama as if she had hung the moon, mouth upturned in a smile that said more than her words ever could.
I turned away. Jealousy flaring in the deepest parts of my soul. Grief springing out of my heart and drowning me in its dark, churning waters.
In my dreams, I still hold onto the hope that one day this beautiful mother/daughter exchange will be mine. That my sweet BB will call out to me, "Mama, look!" That four years from now I will share in her excitement at her own kindergarten Open House.
And then my dreams are over. Gone with the night and washed away in the morning dew.
She will never be mine. I will never hear her voice call me Mama. I will not be the one she turns to when she's excited, happy, proud, or even when she cries out in pain. Every time I think about this, my heart shatters anew.
She was my baby. She was the one. I just knew when God called me to open my heart up to adoption, that she would be my forever. But she's gone.
She's gone. Gone. Gone.
I've experienced loss before. Placements have come and gone, taking with them a piece of me when they leave. But BB? She was different. On May 15, 2015, I experienced a loss that I have yet to be able to put into words.
The loss of a dream. The loss of forever. But mainly just the loss of her.
Most people seem to think that I'm strong. Super-human. Special. At least that's what they tell me...
But I'm not.
I'm broken, hurting and very much ordinary. My heart doesn't heal fully after my babies leave. They take little chunks of my heart with them... It's the only real gift that I can give them while they're with me... My heart. My undying love. And eventually, my grief.