As much as my gut twists to write these words, I must accept that adoption is necessary. But it is still, to my mind an evil.
I knew that my father had tried to divorce my mother a year before they adopted me. I knew that I was ‘her project’. I knew that he was never around.
Agency was conspicuous by its absence in my upbringing. My adoptive mother neither trusted in me, nor in my agency and this might be regarded by many as wise. After all what can a child know about the consequences of their decisions?
Secrecy was the best choice. But being adopted whilst outwardly respectable, was only another word for disgraced bastard. And everyone knew it, even if they didn’t say it.
It was need at first sight for both of us. We needed each other. I needed to be taken care of. My adoptive mother needed a baby to heal her wounds.