I wanted to be a mother more than anything. After years of miscarriages and heartbreak, I finally prayed out loud: If You give me a child, I promise I’ll save one too.
Ten months later, Stephanie was born. A year after that, we adopted Ruth. I loved both girls fiercely and raised them as equals, telling them simply: “Stephanie grew in my belly. Ruth grew in my heart.”
But as they grew older, their differences caused tension. Stephanie was bold and confident. Ruth was quiet and careful. I didn’t realize how deeply Ruth questioned her place in our family—until the night before her prom.
She stood in her doorway, trembling. “Stephanie told me the truth,” she said. “That you only adopted me because of a deal you made with God.”
My heart shattered.
I told her about the night of my desperate prayer, about grief, fear, and hope. I explained that she wasn’t a promise fulfilled—she was a daughter chosen. That my love for her wasn’t owed. It was real.
Still, she left.
For four endless days, I waited. Then she came home, exhausted, whispering, “I don’t want to be your promise. I just want to be your daughter.”
I held her tight. “You always were.”
Because love isn’t born from prayers or promises.
It grows in the quiet, everyday choosing of a child—again and again.
