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In the spring of 1997, I left home amidst a fire of independence and opportunity. I became a master of fried potatoes and onions, worked full-time, paid my portion of the bills and kept my grades up. All that stated, my mismatched ambitions caught up with me, and six months into my new life I returned home a more subdued, pregnant 17-year-old. And, despite all the complexities surrounding my circumstances, my mother vowed to support me in any decision I made.

The father of my child was unavailable, so I decided to have the baby boy adopted. After only one call to the local adoption center, I met the couple I knew would be the parents. The one stipulation was that it be an open adoption; I wanted the option of being an inconspicuous presence throughout the years if circumstances allowed.

I completed my final high school semester from home, and it was during that time that I went into labor. Everything happened quickly, and the memories I retain are isolated to a timeline of a car ride, an epidural and being relentlessly beaten at spades until the pain of the contractions was so much so that I was thankfully relieved from playing anymore.

My intent to follow through with the adoption never wavered. My mother and I made sure the staff understood the plan to ensure that, once the baby was born, we would be separated for the remainder of the hospital stay. Despite this conversation, just an hour after I was taken back to the room a nurse appeared in the doorway with a crib.

I was caught off-guard and only shook my head a little, without words. My mother explained that there must have been a miscommunication, but the nurse did not move. She waited for an answer from me. This was not part of the plan, but the temptation was too strong. I pushed myself up, nodded and watched wide-eyed as she wheeled the cart towards me. My mother got up and walked towards the hospital bed, and the joy that emanated from her allowed an ease in me to be certain I had made the right decision.

He was swaddled in the standard white blanket with blue and pink stripes, and he was the most perfect baby I had ever seen. His skin was beautifully tan and smooth, and he had thick, long hair that curled at the ends. He was like something out of a magazine.

He slept with me both nights and I recall these hours with clarity — carefully resting on my side, hyper-aware of every movement. I spent every minute cherishing those moments; admiring his beauty, closing my eyes to feel our breathing in sync. I settled into a feeling of peace for the gift of time I had been given this child who slept peacefully and unknowingly within the curve of his first mother’s body. He was my sweet baby, and I was in love.

The time for discharge came and the nurse appeared at my door once again, ready to wheel us downstairs. The adopting couple waited for me in the lobby, but we had to go outside the hospital doors to complete the adoption. I remember sitting in the lobby as the muffled protocol was explained, the new mother looking over at me, tears streaming, her heart breaking for what I was enduring. 
I breathed. This was the moment I had destined for my baby, the promise I had made that meant more than myself, to fulfill the fact that his life could be anything he dared it to be. I would never hold him back, yet I was dying inside.

The nurse wheeled me outside and locked the wheelchair. My eyes met the woman’s, and I bowed. Each step she took seemed heavy, laden with emotions that overfilled her heart. I held my baby up and forward, our arms met with love and reverence, and, on that day, my baby was given his second mother.

 
Just short of one month later, I called his second mother in the middle of the night, so desperately sad, crying to see my baby. They drove down the mountain and arrived trembling at the doorstep, helpless with only the trust of a promise that they feared I would break. 

He was so sweet and sleepy when they arrived. His mother handed him to me, and he was just as I remembered him.  

It was an eternity ago, in the middle of the night at 17 years old, that I cautiously sat with my baby on the over-stuffed couch in my mother’s old home. With the world quieted again, I leaned back. I closed my eyes, and I smiled. We were okay. We were breathing together again, there was nothing to fear, and there was nothing to be sad for. There was peace, and everything was as it should be. 

About the Author

Lydia Miller is the author and creator of theoriginalexistence.com, an autobiographical blog where she unravels the events of her life with the intention of moving gracefully towards a future full of potential. She is a full-time clinical consultant and a 2006 journalism graduate from The University of South Carolina. She currently lives in the beautiful foothills of North Carolina with her daughter Oliviah.

Thank you, Lydia, for sharing your story and for encouraging others.

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