Not many people can say that they’re adopted; but a small percentage is, and I’m lucky enough to be one of them. My mom and dad had split before I was born, leaving my mom to run to my divorced grandpa for help when she was expecting me. He took care of us, but despite these things, my mom never compared to the parent that my grandpa was for me. She struggled with drugs and alcohol, often taking her anger out on me physically when no one was around. After drifting in and out of my life for those reasons, my mom’s custody of me was revoked in August of 2006. My grandpa became my legal guardian at that time, and we started the journey that would eventually lead to my adoption on October 10th, 2014. Throughout those long eight years, we battled court-ordered supervised visitations. I tried to relate to my mom at first, but she continued to inflict the same
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“No word kiddo.” she replied sadly.
We drove home in unusual silence, and she dropped me off at my door. I trudged through the front door, and dropped my backpack on the floor in the living room. My keys lay on the front table, and I practically sprinted to the kitchen to see my grandpa. He stood in front of our island, with a chocolate cake. I raced around the island to hug him.
“Did it go through?” I questioned.
“Finally, with flying colors.” He reassured, “Congratulations.”
My birth certificate laid on the kitchen table still, with mailing addresses on it that would send it to the state court house to change my family information. Sending it would seal the deal, and I would officially be a part of a real family for the first time in my life. Sitting at the kitchen island, eating cake, I felt the anxiety I had carried with me throughout the day melt away, and marveled at how different my life had become fourteen hours later. Within the day, I was given a family to be a part of, and reassurance that my mom would never attempt to take that away from me ever
“No word kiddo.” she replied sadly.
We drove home in unusual silence, and she dropped me off at my door. I trudged through the front door, and dropped my backpack on the floor in the living room. My keys lay on the front table, and I practically sprinted to the kitchen to see my grandpa. He stood in front of our island, with a chocolate cake. I raced around the island to hug him.
“Did it go through?” I questioned.
“Finally, with flying colors.” He reassured, “Congratulations.”
My birth certificate laid on the kitchen table still, with mailing addresses on it that would send it to the state court house to change my family information. Sending it would seal the deal, and I would officially be a part of a real family for the first time in my life. Sitting at the kitchen island, eating cake, I felt the anxiety I had carried with me throughout the day melt away, and marveled at how different my life had become fourteen hours later. Within the day, I was given a family to be a part of, and reassurance that my mom would never attempt to take that away from me ever