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But even as I say it, I know Liam is right. No one knows what lies around the corner, and there’s no sense making plans when you could be using that time, ournow, to live in the moment.
Sleepy and content, he murmurs, “I love you, Sarah Hamilton.”
Wide awake and already grieving the loss of him, I whisper back, “I love you, too, Liam Murphy, and I always will.”
Epilogue
GRACE DAWSON HANSON
I took Owen’s name this past May. I wanted to take it on our wedding day, but I wouldn’t risk doing anything that might put a roadblock in the way of my daughter finding me.
And she did, Sarah found me.
Sarah. It fits her, I suppose. Back when I was pregnant with her, I wouldn’t let myself even think about names. But I know she would have been Bernadette if I’d kept her, named after Damien’s mother. He would have loved that.
Sarah Hamilton. You make up this persona for the people you don’t know, but it’s nothing like the real thing, live and in person. I always imagined her in all superlatives, and she is—she’s amazing, talented, good-hearted and so bright. I want my parents to meet her, my brother and his family, Frannie and Reese someday, too.
I want too much.
I want what I can’t have.
No onereallytalks about adoption. We only acknowledge the couple longing for the child they can’t conceive, and then there’s the baby. Far off in the background is the mother of this motherless child. Problem meet the perfect solution.
It’s all good.
But it’s not like that, is it? There are winners and losers, upsides and downsides for everyone involved.
I’ve spoken to Sarah’s mother Audrey a few times now. She hasn’t reached out directly and neither have I. Sarah passes the phone to her mother on occasion during one of our weekly calls, and now that she’s in school, the opportunity to do this doesn’t come up often. The first time we spoke she was friendly, but I think it was uncomfortable for both of us.
She got what she wanted eighteen years ago, but I imagine she’s lived in fear of the moment when her daughter wanted to find me, and also this time we find ourselves in now, with her daughter wanting to forge some sort of relationship with me.
It’s assumed that I got to live my life, free and unburdened. I was able to finish college and start over with a clean slate. And maybe it feels that way for some women, but I’ll never see myself as anything but the loser in all this. I lost my firstborn child, lost the only piece of Damien left in this world, lost hope for a long time, and I lost years mourning a decision I made when I was little more than a child myself.
And then there’s Sarah. Being adopted seems to have landed her in a state of limbo and confusion. She’s adjusting to college well, I think. From what I can read in her voice over the telephone, and what I saw the one time she’s visited since last summer, she appears to be happy. But it’s taking time to absorb it all. I’m not surprised by this, but I never imagined how hard it would be to stand on the sidelines and watch like a lowly bystander. The instinct to step in and make it all better is so strong. She is their daughter, but she’s a part of me, too. Sarah is my flesh and blood.
I’ve told myself time and time again not to look back and waste time on regrets, but it’s so much easier said than done. For years I’ve reimagined it. I held her that morning in the hospital, but in this revised version, I shook my head and told the social worked I’d changed my mind when she gestured for me to hand her back over. I nuzzled my nose into her baby-soft skin, ran my fingers over that tuft of black hair as I whispered,It’ll be all right, Birdie. You and me…We’ll be just fine.
But that’s not how it went down, so I tell myself to be grateful for every single thing she gives me—every phone call, every email, every secret.
When she came here last month with her Liam, she was shocked when she walked in the door, same way I’m shocked and thrilled every time I turn profile in the mirror. I wasn’t really sure I wanted to know the sex of the baby, but my intuition told me to find out so that I could prepare Sarah. I used to ignore that inner voice of mine, but I don’t anymore.
We asked her to be the godmother for our baby girl—something I’d agonized over for months—and she said yes. She didn’t give off the vibe that she was anything but happy for us, and I hope that’s truly the case. I suspect there have to be some mixed emotions—it would only be natural—but she’s either not there yet or she’s looking to spare my feelings.
In the kitchen together after lunch, she walked up to me and tentatively traced that spot at the nape of my neck. I’d pulled my hair up for a reason. I desperately wanted her to know, but I thought it would seem too staged or forced to point it out myself.
“My birthday,” she whispered.
“I had it done on the first anniversary of Damien’s passing.”
“Why the bird?”
I turn to face her, trying but failing to keep my emotions in check. “It was your hair. You had this thick mass of black hair on your head, and for those few minutes when I held you, I kept running my fingers through it. It was soft and so glossy, like Damien’s, like a blackbird’s.” I hold in the tears when I smile at her. “In my heart, that’s what I’ve always called you…Birdie.”
She comes closer, and I wrap my arms around her, holding her close. Sarah will never know how I thought of her every day, or how her birthdays were laced with sorrow, hope and prayers every year. To try and convince her, or to make her believe—the words sound cheap to my own ears so I don’t say them.
All I can do is let her know that I’ll always be here for her, that she will always be welcome in our home and in my life. I’ll give her a helping hand or a shoulder to cry on whenever she needs one. I’ll show her through actions, not words, that in my heart, she willalwaysbe my daughter.
I’ll keep doing the best that I can.
Every day of her life.
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