I stay in touch with Nancy. We have lunch once a month. She brings old pictures from when I was a baby. Some days, I see glimpses of the woman who held me for that first year and prayed I’d be safe.
I also started volunteering with a foster organization, sharing my story when it helps.
Because here’s the truth:
Family isn’t made of blood. It’s made of choices. Of people who step in when they don’t have to. Of women like Sohaila who give their whole heart to a child not born from them.
And men like my father, flawed and fumbling, who tried to fix what they could in the only way they knew how.
We’re all patchwork.
But patchwork can still be beautiful.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. Please like and share if this moved you—you never know who needs to hear it today.
