I Adopted a Baby After Making a Promise to God – 17 Years Later, She Broke My Heart

More than everything else, I wanted to be a mother. My prayers were eventually fulfilled after years of heartache and sorrow, and my family expanded in ways I never could have predicted. However, I was devastated by a single, silent statement from my adopted daughter seventeen years later.

As I waited in my car in the fertility clinic parking lot, I saw a woman leave with an ultrasound picture in her hand.

She looked as though she had just been given the world.

I was so depleted that I was unable to cry.

My spouse and I danced around each other at home, selecting phrases in the same manner that you would pick a floorboard to walk on in an old house.

I felt so empty that I was unable to

even shed tears.

Tension returned to our family a few months later when my next period of fertility drew near.

My husband placed his hands on my shoulders and made little circles with his thumbs, saying, “We can take a break.”

“I don’t want a break. I want a baby.”

He didn’t dispute. How could he respond?

One after the other miscarriages occurred.

The miscarriages occurred

one after the other.

In some way, each one felt colder and faster than the last.

I was folding baby clothes when the third incident occurred. I couldn’t resist buying them when they were on sale.

I felt that familiar, awful sensation while holding a onesie with a duck on the front.

Although my husband was patient and kind, our relationship was suffering as a result of the losses.

The losses were

Taking their toll

on our partnership.

Every time I said, “Maybe next time,” I could see the silent anxiety in his eyes.

He feared for me, for my suffering, and for the harm that all of this desire was causing to us.

The doctor stopped speaking in an optimistic tone after the fifth miscarriage. He was seated across from me in his sterile office, which had happy baby prints on the wall.

His words were soft. “Some bodies just… don’t cooperate,” he murmured. “There are other options.”

“Some people simply

Don’t cooperate.

I envied John’s tranquility while he slept that night. I was unable to locate it.

I slipped out of bed.

With my back to the water, I sat by myself on the chilly bathroom floor. Somehow, the chill felt appropriate. Adapting. I counted the fractures in the grout between the tiles while staring at it.

My life was at its lowest point at that time. I reached for something to put an end to my misery because I was drowning and desperate.

It was the darkest.

my life’s purpose.

For the first time in my life, I prayed aloud.

“Dear God, please… if You give me a child… I promise I’ll save one too. If I become a mom, I will give a home to a child who has none.”

I felt nothing as the words lingered in the air.

I cried, “Do you even hear me?”

John was never informed. Not even when that request was answered.

I prayed aloud.

initially

in my existence.

Stephanie was born ten months later, pink, screaming, and enraged at the world.

I was astounded by how fiercely, demandingly, and vibrantly she came out.

John and I wept as we held on to one another and showered our little child with all the love we had been longing to give her.

I was overcome with joy, yet remembrance sat silently next to it.

I needed to fulfill the promise I made when I prayed for this child

I was overcome with joy.

But next to it, memory sat peacefully.

John and I entered the kitchen on Stephanie’s first birthday, a year later, as balloons touched the ceiling and visitors sung.

I had wrapped adoption documents in a folder. When I showed it to John, he smiled and arched an eyebrow at me. I then showed him a pen that I had embellished with a ribbon strip.

“I just wanted to make it look pretty. To welcome the newest member of our family.”

The adoption documents were signed by us.

We put our signature on the

adoption documents.

Two weeks later, we took Ruth home.

On Christmas Eve, she had been left without a note, close to the city’s iconic Christmas tree.

She was very different from Stephanie; she was small and quiet.

I didn’t consider how pronounced the distinctions between the girls would become as they grew older, but I assumed that difference would mean they would complement one another.

Ruth was taken home by us.

after two weeks.

Ruth looked at the world as if she were trying to figure out the rules before anyone saw that she was breaking them.

Ruth didn’t cry unless she was by herself, as I saw right away.

My husband remarked, “She’s an old soul,” as he gently bounced her in his arms.

I embraced her.

That adorable kid would end up breaking my heart, something I never would have predicted.

I never would have imagined.

That adorable infant

would cause me to lose heart.

The girls were aware of Ruth’s adoption as they grew up. We put it plainly:

“Ruth grew in my heart, but Stephanie grew in my belly.”

They acknowledged this in the same manner that kids acknowledge that water is wet and the sky is blue. It simply was.

I loved them just as much and treated them the same way, but as my children became older, I noticed conflict between them.

I became aware of friction.

among my girls.

They were so dissimilar. similar to water and oil.

Without any attempting, Stephanie was able to demand attention. She boldly asked questions that made adults uneasy and entered rooms as if she owned them.

As if they were awarding medals, Stephanie completed everything from dance lessons to arithmetic assignments.

She was ambitious and focused on being the greatest at everything.

Stephanie demanded attention.

without making an effort.

Ruth was cautious.

In the same manner that other children studied spelling words, she studied emotions. Early on, she learned how to make herself small and quiet and how to vanish when she felt like too much.

Treating them both equally eventually began to feel unequal.

At first, the rivalry was subtle. Little details that, if you weren’t paying attention, you might almost miss.

There was a subtle competition.

initially.

Stephanie stepped in. Ruth held out.

Stephanie inquired. Ruth wished.

Stephanie guessed. Ruth pondered.

Teachers commended Ruth’s generosity and Stephanie’s self-assurance during school functions. But doesn’t friendliness feel more subdued? When confidence is there next to it, waving its hand in the air, it’s easier to ignore.

Instructors commended Stephanie’s

self-assurance and Ruth’s generosity.

When the girls didn’t feel love in the same way, loving them equally began to appear unfair.

How were they able to? They were distinct individuals, each with their own hearts, anxieties, and methods of determining their own sufficiency.

Their rivalry grew more intense as teenagers.

Ruth accused Stephanie of “always needing to be in the spotlight,” while Stephanie accused Ruth of being “babied.”

As adolescents,

Their competition became very intense.

They quarreled about attention, friends, and clothing.

I told myself it was just typical sister things. Just typical.

But there was more to it than that. Something I was unable to identify.

In the silence that followed yelled disagreements and slammed doors, there were moments when it seemed as though our family was harboring a poisonous secret that was just waiting to explode.

They quarreled over clothing,

companions, as well as attention.

I was prepared to shoot pictures when I stood in Ruth’s room doorway the night before prom.

“You look beautiful, baby. That dress suits you so well.”

Ruth’s jaw tightened. I sensed a change between us even though she didn’t look at me.

“Mom, you’re not coming to my prom.”

I grinned, perplexed. “What? Of course I am.”

Something struck me.

change between us.

At last, she turned to face me. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes were red, and her hands were shaking a little by her sides.

“No, you’re not. And after prom… I’m leaving.”

“What?” My heart stopped, I swear. “Leaving? Why?”

She forcefully swallowed.

“Stephanie told me the truth about you.”

The space became chilly.

“After prom… I’m leaving.”

“What truth?” I said in a whisper.

Ruth’s eyes become slitted. She had never given me such a look before.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t. What did Stephanie tell you?”

When she did, her voice trembled.

“What did Stephanie tell you?”

“That you prayed for Stephanie. You promised that if God gave you a baby, you’d adopt a child. That’s why you got me. The only reason you got me.”

Forgotten, I sat on the side of her bed with my phone still in my grasp.

“Yes,” I said subtly.

“I did pray for a baby, and I did make that promise.”

Ruth closed her eyes. She had hoped I would tell her it was all a lie, it seemed to me.

“So I was a deal. Payment made for your real child.”

It appeared to me

that she had hoped I would

Inform her that everything was false.

“No, honey, it’s not that… transactional. I don’t know how Stephanie found out about that, but let me tell you the truth about that prayer. I’ve never told you girls about this because it happened during the hardest moment in my life.”

I told her about the night I laid on the bathroom floor, grieving my fifth miscarriage, and the fervent, unadulterated prayer that came from a place so deep I was unaware I possessed it.

“Yes, Stephanie was the answer to that prayer, and yes, the promise I made stayed with me, but I never viewed it as some kind of outstanding payment.”

“I never watched it.”

as a sort of

unpaid balance.”

“When I saw your picture and heard your story, I immediately started loving you. The vow didn’t create my love for you. My love for Stephanie taught me I had more love to give, and the vow showed me where to put it.”

Ruth paid attention. She did, I’m sure of it. I could see her attempting to make sense of this new information and incorporate it into the narrative she had been telling herself.

However, she was injured at the age of 17, and when someone is already in pain, sometimes being correct doesn’t matter.

Being correct is irrelevant.

when a person is already in pain.

Even so, she went to prom alone herself and never returned home.

Throughout the night, I waited.

At three, John dozed out on the couch, but I was unable to do the same. I was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for my phone to ring while I stared at it.

Stephanie was the first to cry. Her face was puffy and blotchy from sobbing when she entered the kitchen at dawn.

Since then, she has not returned home.

“Mom,” she said. “Mom, I’m sorry.”

She informed me that she had overheard me discussing the prayer, the vow, and my gratitude to God for giving me both of my daughters over the phone with my sister months prior.

She also described to me how she had twisted it and used phrases meant to hurt and win Ruth during a battle.

“I never thought she’d actually leave. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”

She had heard me.

on the phone with

months ago, my sister

I let my loud, angry, damaged daughter cry while I held her.

The days passed slowly. John insisted that she would return. that all she needed was some time. I wanted to think he was real.

I caught sight of her through the front window on the fourth day.

She hesitated as she stood on the porch with her overnight bag.

Before she could knock, I opened the door.

I unlocked the door.

prior to her knocking.

She appeared worn out.

When she said, “I don’t want to be your promise,” “I just want to be your daughter.”

I gathered her into my arms and embraced her.

“You always were, baby. You always were.”

Then she started crying. It was the kind of terrible sobbing that makes your entire body tremble, not the quiet, deliberate sobs she had taught herself to emit.