I told my mom I was infertile after years of trying. She said, “Maybe it’s karma—for that abortion in college.” I froze. I blocked her.
Months passed. Then came a letter: no apology, just an adoption flyer with “You” written across the baby’s photo. I stared at that envelope for a full ten minutes before I even opened it.
Her handwriting hadn’t changed—tight, sharp cursive like it was angry at the paper. The envelope was thick, too, like she’d included multiple things. My hands shook.
Not from sadness. From disbelief. The flyer inside was from a local adoption agency.
One of those glossy brochures that always feels like marketing for something way more delicate than they treat it. It was folded around a single page featuring a baby boy, maybe seven months old, with curly dark hair and the kind of eyes that feel like they already know you. Above his head, she had scribbled just one word: You.
No “Love, Mom.” No apology. Just that one word. At first, I didn’t even let myself go there.
I assumed she was being her usual, passive-aggressive self—shaming me again for my “choices,” as she called them. She never forgave me for terminating that pregnancy when I was nineteen. She told her church group I “lost the baby” and told me I’d better stick to that story if I ever wanted God to listen to me again.
After she said what she said on the phone—that disgusting comment—I blocked her immediately. I didn’t even let her explain. But now this?
“You think she means… you should adopt him? Or she’s saying it is you?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But I can’t stop staring at his face.
I don’t even know why.”
Iman gently took the flyer, folded it back up, and said, “Then let’s find out.”
The adoption agency was small, family-run, and located in the next town over. I called pretending to be an interested potential adoptive parent, not mentioning the flyer. They invited us for an open house the following weekend.
Iman and I went together. Walking into that space was surreal—nursery colors on the walls, soft music playing, a receptionist who looked no older than twenty. When I asked to speak to someone about a specific child, I showed her the flyer.
She typed something into the computer and nodded. “Oh, this little guy. He’s already matched with a foster family, but he hasn’t been formally adopted yet.”
I asked if I could know anything about him.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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