Every time I looked at Zara and Mila in their bassinets, I knew walking away would haunt me forever.
The first few years were chaos. Sleepless nights. Double feedings. Double fevers. Double tantrums. I learned to function on fragments of rest and fierce love.
They were different from the start.
Zara was observant and thoughtful, prone to asking questions that startled adults. Mila was bold and impulsive, forever climbing furniture and daring the world to keep up.
When they were five, they asked where babies came from.
When they were eight, they asked why they didn’t look like me.
When they were ten, they asked directly, “Are we adopted?”
I had always planned to tell them. I believed in honesty, so I told them yes.
I told them their birth mother was young and very brave. I told them she loved them. I told them she di3d bringing them into the world.
I did not tell them about Aaron.
