When did love happen?
My oldest daughter is adopted. She was four days old when we arrived at the hospital to pick her up. And if ten pounds, ten ounces and 23 inches tall wasn’t enough to astonish me, the idea of looking down at a baby I’d never seen before and trying to convince myself that she was my daughter.
“You’re my daughter. You’re my daughter.” I whispered to myself as I looked down at her. It didn’t register. Didn’t seem real. Nor did loving her seem real. How can you love someone you just met? I changes her faded hospital clothes into a vibrant pink romper, and whisked her home.
Did I love her at that moment? No. But somehow, love happened in that first week she lived with us. Suddenly we went from three people living in a flat in San Francisco to a family. A mom. A dad. And a baby girl named Elizabeth.