I have an orange fabric-covered scrapbook of precious high school memories. Just inside the front cover there's a picture of my mother and me. My dad took it on the day of my senior prom. We were in the yard looking off to our left. Our profiles are similar. Our hair is the same shade of sunny golden-blonde. It's a beautiful picture of my mother and me. Beneath it is a poem someone cut out from the paper for me on mothers day years ago.
She doesn't dwell on the fact that my brothers and I were adopted. In my mothers eyes we are simply her own. It's not a denial of the truth, because we were told at a very early age about our blood origins. It's not really important where we came from anymore.