I am the adopted girl. I am different. I have learned to accept this. But now, as I sit in the cafeteria listening to my friend’s conversation abut adoption, I can feel myself getting more angry and ashamed. “How can you look into the eyes of a child and know their not yours?” my boyfriend says unthinkingly. “I know!” says my best friend. I sit quietly wondering when they will finally remember that I’m adopted. Finally
I quietly say, “I honestly don’t know how my parents can look into my eyes and say that I’m their child.” I continue just as quietly, “I do know that I plan on adopting at least 1 child when I’m an adult.” They all stare at me, taking in what I just said. Suddenly they realize what I meant. They apologize over and over again. “We’re so sorry!” My best friend says. “I’m so sorry babe!” My boyfriend says as he hugs me.
I get up from the table and silently walk away. As I walk away, I think back to how it happened.

I was just three years old when I was put into foster care. My mom had left me and my little brother with the neighbor. My mother didn’t come back for three days. By that time the neighbor had gotten the state involved. My little brother and I were put into separate foster homes. My dad was very mad at my mother; she had left us with the neighbor so she could go to a party. To make thing worse, he was also in trouble with the state. They had to fill out a ton of papers to get us back. My father tried to fill out his paperwork but my mom barely put a dent in her papers. She was eighteen after all.

During that one year time span, I was put into seven different foster homes. Not because I was a bad child, but because the foster parents didn’t want to keep me longer than they had to. Plus, most of them thought my birth parents would get me back. Also, during that year, my littlest brother was born. He was born into foster care. My parents finally saw that they were losing the fight, and signed us over to be adopted. Not that the wanted to, they just wanted to do what was best for the three of us.

At age six I was finally adopted by a nice couple who I had thought of as my parents. I had thought of them that way since I first met them. They are Mom and Dad to me. I love them dearly. I still miss my birth parents, but I am very thankful that they did give me up for adoption.

As I walk out of the cafeteria, I think back to how it happened, and my anger slowly fades, replaced by love and gratitude. I block my friends hurtful words from my memory and just let it be.