I stood up extra-straight on the doorstep of a little white house in Federalsburg, Maryland. I wasn’t sure if I should knock or ring the bell or just walk in, since I had never been to my mother’s house before. I had no idea who she really was. But here I was, as ready as I’d ever be. I had shaved my face clean that morning, for the first time in months, figuring it would help me look more like the baby she gave away 50 years earlier.
I knocked, dogs barked, the door opened, and my fragile mother looked me up and down. “My god, you’ve changed!” she exclaimed, and threw her bony arms around me.
I was 4 months old when I was adopted, which seemed very young until I had babies of my own. It’s not that young, really. A great deal happens in those first 3,000 hours. We learn to be fed and bounced and burped, to hear laughter and lullabies, to feel settled and protected in somebody’s arms.
