When I Can't Answer Her Questions

If you ask Brielle where she’s from, she’ll excitedly shout…

“Wuhan!”

When you ask her where Wuhan is, she’ll even more excitedly shout…

“China!”

She even loves to tell people her Chinese name.

I love this about her. I love that she loves China and knows that’s where she was born. I know it’s healthy for her to learn tidbits about her past naturally as she grows so that there isn’t a shocking adoption reveal in her lifetime.

I also know that hard questions are coming. Questions with no answers at all that will open her eyes to the reality of adoption and her puzzled past.

“Mommy, who were my foster parents? Where’s my foster brother?”

“Mommy, where’s my China mommy?”

“Mommy, why couldn’t my birth parents keep me?”

These are hard, gut-wrenching questions that I can't answer.

I would do anything to keep her from having to ask these questions but my reality, and her reality, is that adoption doesn’t come without brokenness

She’s blazing her way toward age five and kindergarten. It’s happening in the blink of an eye and I can’t do anything to slow it down. I can’t keep her little and naïve forever.

I know that the questions are coming. All I tangibly have to offer her is a stack of photos that show a glimpse of a woman’s arm and a referral document that only creates head scratching and more questions.

I can swarm the inbox of ev