I sat in my car outside the fertility clinic watching a woman leave with an ultrasound photo, her face glowing, while I felt nothing—I couldn’t even cry. At home, my husband and I tiptoed around each other’s pain. When I said I wanted a baby, not a break, he didn’t argue. Miscarriage followed miscarriage, each colder and faster than the last. The third happened while I was folding baby clothes.
The losses wore on us, and after the fifth, the doctor gently said some bodies just don’t cooperate and hinted at other options. That night I sat alone on the cold bathroom floor and prayed for the first time: If You give me a child, I’ll give a home to one who has none. I felt nothing.
Ten months later, Stephanie was born—screaming, pink, alive. We cried with relief and joy, but the memory of loss stayed beside it. On Stephanie’s first birthday, we signed adoption papers and brought home Ruth, a tiny baby left on Christmas Eve. She was nothing like Stephanie, and I didn’t predict how different they’d be as they grew.
Stephanie was bold, confident, hungry for attention and achievement. Ruth was quiet, observant, learned to shrink to fit. I loved them both fiercely, but treating them equally didn’t feel equal because they experienced love differently. As teens, their rivalry sharpened—Stephanie accused Ruth of being “babied,” Ruth accused Stephanie of needing the spotlight. It wasn’t just normal sister stuff; it felt deeper.
The night before prom, Ruth told me not to come, announcing she was leaving after. She’d been told by Stephanie that I had adopted her only because I prayed for Stephanie—a “deal” I made with God. I calmly explained the prayer: I had never seen Ruth as a payment, but as love I had to give. Even so, she left.
Days later, Stephanie came home crying, apologizing. She admitted she had overheard my words about the prayer and twisted them to hurt Ruth in an argument. I held her as she cried.
On the fourth day, Ruth stood at our door, tired and carrying a bag. She said she didn’t want to be my promise, just my daughter. I held her and told her she always was.