I learned I was an adopted kid in 1978, the year I turned 5. Mom read “The Chosen Baby” by Valentina Wasson to my older sister and me (she is also adopted) every night until we outgrew bedtime stories. Our young minds were encoded with the message: You’re the chosen ones; you’re the cool kids.
Being adopted was never a source of shame. Our older brothers, our parents’ biological sons, were as much our brothers and we their sisters as if we’d all come out of the same oven. Everyone in the family knew the refrain: We didn’t grow under mom’s heart; we grew in it.
We were special and never doubted it.
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Too much
Being adopted made me special, but it did
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