When I gave up my daughter for adoption, I always hoped I would see her again when she was ready. When her 18th birthday came and went without contact, I lost hope—until a familiar stranger showed up at my work. In 1992, I was 14 years old and preparing to leave my childhood home to move to a different state with my parents.
It meant leaving my boyfriend, who was 13 at the time. And, in a moment of teenage brilliance, we decided, why not lose our virginity a week before I was going to move across the country, since we probably would never see each other again? Three months after we moved, I realized I was pregnant.
My parents are good people, and I still don't know why, but I couldn't tell them. I kept my pregnancy a secret until I was almost seven months along. It's not just that I didn't want my parents to know.
I didn't want to believe it myself. Our bodies and minds work against each other sometimes. But at some point, I finally realized that this was happening, and I needed to tell someone.
I went to a friend, who urged me to tell my parents, and sat with me for support as I broke the news. But they were very worried about me. I was pregnant and I had not received any prenatal care.
We didn't make any decisions that day. But weeks later, we met with an adoption agency. I met a few families, and eventually found what I thought would be the perfect family for my child.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
