There’s this poem I’m supposed to love. I first read it when we adopted our oldest son: Not flesh of my flesh nor bone of my bone/But still miraculously my own./Never forget, for a single minute,/You didn’t grow under my heart, but in it.
“Intimate Strangers”
She was going to have a child but couldn’t keep it, I wanted a child desperately but couldn’t have one. She was the mother at birth; I was the mother right after. It sounds simple, but it wasn’t.