The glass doors parted. My son and the father who adopted him strode into the hotel lobby. I hugged first the man I had given my infant to. Then I hugged my son, eighteen now, that magical age. Over breakfast, he looked into his saucer for a bit. Then he did a little looking past my ear. But then I found him examining my face—my child, his light eyes—I couldn’t look away, and his stare was bold.
"I look so much like you," he said at his house later. We lounged in his living room. I knew its burgundy carpet from the pictures his Mom mailed me through the agency every year. He had grown from a toddler to an adult there.
On the other side of the state, I had been growing up too. And now here we were . . .
submitted at 1:55pm
26 April 2009
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