For Jeff

You are 39 years old.

I remember the day as if it were yesterday. It was late at night, and my back started to hurt. I had no idea. Brian called the hospital, and they said to come in. We did.

The labour was a hazy nightmare of pain such as I had never known. There was no LaMaze, no "birthing center," no consideration. There were drugs. All sorts of drugs. Demarol. Scopolamine. God knows what else. There was screaming and cursing, and to this day, I can't remember if I was hearing it or doing it.

And there was the hope that Brian would take back his words. The ones that said, "If you keep this baby, I'm gone."

Four days, I was in the hospital. That was pretty standard in those days. I fed you, changed you, and looked after you like any new mom. You had a birthmark in the shape of a star in the middle of your forehead. Brian came to visit twice; he timed it so he was there after the nurse had taken you back to the nursery. They wouldn't let him see you. They had orders that only the parents were to see you. They told me that meant MY parents, not yours. My parents never came.

The last day, I managed to get them to let Brian see you. I was sure that, when he saw you, he would change his mind. I was an optimist. He was 19, same as I was. He took one look and left. Didn't trust himself to hold to his resolve, I suppose.

We left, and the adoption agency lady took you.

It was several weeks later that Brian and I had to go to the agency office and sign the papers. I had never cried so hard, or been so out of control, in my entire life. I literally shuddered with sobs. Brian was embarrassed. I didn't care. I didn't know it would hurt that badly.

I just wanted what was best for you. You deserved a real home, not a 19-year-old single mom. I believed him when he said he would go. I believed my parents when they said they would not help. I felt that I had made the best choice.

I had lost many people in my life; friends and family, but there was always the feeling that I might see them again. And the feeling that the loss was outside my control. Not so, with you. Once those papers were signed, that was it. Done. There were no open adoptions in those days, and the choice was made by me, with open eyes.

I called you Charles Philip.

Now, you have a son of your own, and a wife.

Don't lose either one of them.

~signed,

The Widow.