Nine months later, I held my daughter, Willa, for the first time in my life.
She was perfect. I couldn’t stop the tears. After forty-two years of waiting, I was finally, truly someone’s mother.
Three days after bringing her home, there was a knock at my door. A woman stood on my porch.
Around forty. Her eyes red and raw from crying. “Are you Rosalind?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.” Her gaze dropped straight to the baby cradled in my arms. “Was she born three days ago?”
