By Diane Ferraro for THE CHRISTIAN POST
Like most little girls, I imagined I’d be a mom when I grew up. My nature was to nurture, and the thought of not having kids was never an option. After all, nearly every child on Tiller Street, where I grew up in idyllic Orange, California, had a mommy.
My mom and dad met in Toronto when my father moved there for work as a plumber after growing up in Sunderland, England. My mom always wanted to live in sunny Southern California, and their journey landed them in Santa Ana, where the plumbers’ union had plenty of work.
The land of vivid sunsets, tall palm trees and roadside fruit stands year-round was paradise for these young immigrants, but their dream of starting a family wasn’t coming true. Infertility prevented mom from conceiving.
Somehow, my dad met a lawyer who knew of a young woman who was pregnant and looking for a nice couple to adopt her baby. A deal was negotiated to cover the modest legal fees, the young woman’s medical expenses, and keep my adoption private.
Two years later, my little brother was adopted, and our family was complete. Until it wasn’t when I was eight years old and my mother passed away.
