There’s this poem I’m supposed to love. I first read it when we adopted our oldest son: Not flesh of my flesh nor bone of my bone/But still miraculously my own./Never forget, for a single minute,/You didn’t grow under my heart, but in it.
"Which Ones Are Yours?"
She has children by birth and by adoption, and is tired of answering this and other heritage queries. This mom shares her family's beautiful story.
