Where Does The Time Go ?..

Another day we missed out on, so much I want to share with you.

So much has been taken from us, but still all I can think of is when our baby girl will be coming home.

She won’t be a baby anymore, and she’s not a baby now. She’s 9, and she has no idea that she has a family that she belongs to, she’s surrounded by strangers playing house.

They have stolen memories, and are raising my nice in a glass house full of lies.

Needless to say, I can’t sleep at night. It’s impossible to rest when there is a knot in your stomach and the nightmares get so bad that I’ve literally tried to jump out of a window after waking up screaming, not knowing what I was doing, and very thankful to have been sleeping on the ground floor.

I’m stuck between anger, bitterness, and confusion and the very word “adoption” makes my blood pressure hit the roof.  I see all these stories of people buying children around the world, people so desperate for a child they’re willing to do anything and take them away from their “real” family who loves them.

I haven’t been able to write for the past few weeks, I’ve just been stuck in heartache. It hurts to think about my niece so far from home, looking into unfamiliar faces that have no business being in her life.

I want to tell her, I want to show her allllllllll the paperwork that she deserves to see. I want her to know that we are waiting for her patiently because the “people” who have her will keep her from us until they no longer can. Nine more years to wait, but halfway there.

I’ll be waiting for my beloved niece. Nine years or nine hundred years, I’ll be right here waiting for her.

With love….

One thought on “Where Does The Time Go ?..

  1. “Oh, tell me of my Mother. Is she roaming the skies? I’ve been dreaming all about her, and awoke with tearful eyes. She was bending o’er my pillow in a deep and earnest prayer, and her voice was like the breathing of the soft summer air. Is the world so full of pain that she will not come again like a sunbeam on the rain? Oh, tell me of my mother. Does she know I’m here alone? Where have my early friends gone and my dearest memories flown? Oh, tell me of my mother.” —Stephen Collins Foster, 1861


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