I See My Daughter Everywhere
It stings the most when I run into friends who have daughters her age.
It happens more and more as technology brings people back together. Or, in a totally anti-technology way, when people end up coming back to our beloved camp after years away for whatever reason. Life, work, aforementioned children. In tow, they introduce me to their little girl. Nearly eight, they say. My breath catches. I tell her hello. I hate myself a little bit more. I smile. I cry inside.
It was okay for so-and-so to have a baby at x-age. But not me. And I’m older than her. Than him. Or younger. Or our birthdays are the same. Or. Or. Or.
Comparisons do no good. I know this. Logically. But I watch her walk away with her daughter, hand in hand, and the sting nearly brings me to my knees. That could have been me and the daughter I put up for adoption, walking hand in hand on the way to the ice cream store at camp, arguing over one scoop or two.
I shake my head and try to regain some perspective. I say a word of thanks for all that I have in my life — including her. And I stare up at the tree that shades our cottage in the late afternoon and wonder what my lesson really is in all of this, what I’m supposed to have learned. Because I can’t see past the big, fat leaves to the sky to see what this bigger picture is; I’m lost in the dark, shady tones.
I miss her.