It’s been three years now. Lila is 13, healthy, and full of life. The garden blooms year-round. On the living room wall, the letter from her parents is framed and cherished, a daily reminder of the love that surrounds her. Sometimes, I pass by her room at night and see her asleep under glow-in-the-dark stars we stuck to her ceiling. Her blue scarf lies on the chair — untouched for months because she doesn’t need it anymore. I used to think I had missed my chance at motherhood. That life had decided it wasn’t meant for me. But maybe, I was just waiting for the right child — one who would teach me that motherhood isn’t about biology. It’s about showing up. About love that never quits, even when life gets hard. Lila was born twice — once into this world, and once into my heart. Both times, she was absolutely perfect.
