Open adoption, broken heart

While our agency allowed "matches" as early as the seventh month, they stressed to us that a match was nothing more than a woman expressing her right to consider an adoption plan. It was not the promise of a baby, it was not a guarantee that we would be parents again.

"There is always a 50 percent chance that a woman who chooses you will change her mind," Denise made clear. "A real baby changes things and no matter how sure she is while she's pregnant, she will need to make that decision again once she has the baby." It was a common refrain from the agency during our wait: "Guard your heart," they told us. "The baby isn't yours until the papers are signed."

Seven months after completing our adoption homestudy, our social worker called. "There's a woman who seems like a good fit for you, and we would like to share your profile with her."

Jessica was 19, they told us, and African-American. The birth father, who was choosing not to be involved, was white, like us. The baby was healthy -- Jessica's prenatal care had been good. "And it says here what she's having," Denise added. "Do you want to know?"

We did. A girl, she told us, due April 4. A week later we got another call. Jessica wanted to meet with us.

Our agency facilitated our first meeting at a downtown restaurant. Jessica brought three of her closest friends, and we all sat across from each other fidgeting awkwardly. Jessica was polite, guarded but not shy, and greeted us with sonogram pictures of the baby she was carrying. She was due in two months and feeling good.

I liked Jessica right away. I liked her confidence and sense of humor. I liked her wide smile. And I liked how direct she was with us. "I'm going to name the baby Madison," she told us. "You can change it later but that's the name I'm going to give her."

When it was time to go we exchanged phone numbers and last names. Over the next few weeks she and I talked regularly -- not just about Madison but about other things, too. Politics, music, Jessica's plans to travel and go to school. One day I hung up the phone after a particularly long conversation and told my husband, "If she decides not to place Madison, she'll be a good mother."

We talked about the adoption, too, about what her plans were and why she chose us to be part of it. Those reasons are complex and not ones I feel I can share here.

"You already had a son," she said. " I liked knowing Madison would have a brother. I also liked what you said about including me. And the paper. I liked your paper. It was tasteful."

At the first meeting at the restaurant, Jessica told us that she knew she would want to be alone with Madison for the three days before she could legally sign the surrender. We said we understood. But the morning that Madison was born she called to say that she had changed her mind and wanted us to come in.

"I need to see you with her," she said simply.

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Even after we arrived home with Madison, I could not get Jessica's tears out of my mind. I felt numb. I didn't know how to answer when people congratulated us. They saw only the happy event, but each time Madison cried I felt sure that every one of her ordinary infant sorrows was magnified by the separation from her birth mother. This was not the gauzy, soft-focus motherhood I had envisioned.

Jessica was everywhere because she was in my daughter. The shape of her brown eyes, the curve of her face -- they became mixed up in my mind. During every diaper change I'd gaze at Madison's small body and imagine how Jessica must have looked at one week old. They mirrored each other; the vulnerability of the mother who had given up her child and the child who had lost her mother.

"You need to move on," friends said. "You need to let Jessica move on. Quit taking her phone calls. Step up and be Madison's mother!" But no one could tell me how to be her mother when she already had a mother. I could care for her -- rock her, feed her, and sing her to sleep -- but something would not allow me to claim her.

Was it the phone calls? Jessica called about once a week to hear how Madison was doing and to tell me what was going on in her life. I kept my stories sweet and lively. She was working hard to put her life back in order and was forthright with me about her struggles. She missed Madison, she told me. The decision was the right one but oh, she missed her. I welcomed our talks even as I shrank from them. I felt it was my duty to hear her cry. It was the least I could do, I thought, because I had her baby. My guilt was a necessary purgatory, an inadequate payment for my privilege.

Each time, I would hang up determined to embrace Madison as my own. Jessica wanted me to be Madison's mother, didn't she? She chose me. She signed the papers. She had released her to me, and now I was failing her trust.

Next page: Sometimes I don't want to share Madison. Sometimes I want to feel that I am the only mother she has and will ever need