The story I'm telling myself this morning is that nothing can ever change the fact that I am my children's mother. Other people can and will and should join our family, but we are the center, the actual family.
This story may be fiction.
Two brothers found each other recently. Adopted by different families, they did not know one another until they ended up working together. They way they have their hair cut, the glasses they choose, the clothes they wear—all of it is virtually identical. The blood ties are as plain as the broad noses on their squarish faces.
The CBS news story makes my heart bleed. One co-worker is quoted as saying, "There's nothing like family, especially when you don't have one. Now they've got it." Both these men were raised with siblings. At least one of their adoptive parents is still living. That counts, damn it. Those people count. They are family.
Of course, it is not their family for whom I am outraged, but myself. My fears shriek and wail inside my chest, writhing and fighting for light and air. I can turn off the news, refuse to read the story, breathe deeply until the fear subsides.
No story I tell myself changes the simple truth: Blood is thicker than water. Not more important than love, mind you; not more important than a lifetime of care and devotion. But undeniable.
What is the capitol of the state of denial? I want to move there.