The letter wound its way through all the intermediaries, but eventually, the adoptive family wrote back. They seem kind. They said that they’d send pictures if I wanted them, but the mere thought made me want to puke and cry and scream, in no particular order. Worse still was their other offer: An in-person visit.
Come see her, they urged. She’s smart, and brave, and beautiful, and she’d love to meet you.
Why not? That’s the million-dollar question.
I tell myself it’s timing. Or if not timing, then logistics. Or psychology. Just a headspace thing, you know, and I just gotta figure a few things out, get various affairs sorted, settle this, arrange that.
All of which is obviously bullshit. “Cope,” as the kids say.
There was a window of time, brief and bright, when I actually believed I
