My children do not look like me.
Our complexions do not match. The bathroom cabinet is filled with gels, creams, and brushes meant for an array of hair textures.
Our eyes are all different shades, our voices distinct in their tones and cadences.
When we are in public strangers comment that my kids must look just like their father.
My older children, on quick journeys through their teens, shake their heads.
My youngest daughter, firmly cemented in elementary school, looks at me, confused. She asks why would she look like her father when she is brown and he is not?
One of the world’s greatest misconceptions is the belief that blood must equate to love.
None of me runs within my children’s veins.
They did not slip from my womb – I did not choose their names, I did not hear their first cries, I did not witness their first steps.
But, I know the feeling of too-long limbs wrapped around my arms, frigid fingers tucked inside of my palms.
I have grown accustomed to their voices, singing and shouting and murmuring, through the halls of our home.
Warm, wet tears have coated my cheeks in moments of their greatest pain.
The palms of my hands have ached from clapping for them. My throat has grown sore from cheering their names.
I have known them for three years.
My soul has known them for their entire lives.
I share a face with my own mother. My hair is starting to gray in all of the places hers began.
My teeth mirror hers in shape, round and smooth as they graze a full bottom lip.
No one has ever commented that I must match my father.
Sometimes the reflection that returns my gaze takes my breath away.
Her blood runs through my veins – the same blood that was spilled by her hands.
We have not spoken in eight years.
She is not fortunate enough to know the beauty that my children hold.
People often tell me they “couldn’t do it.” They share that foster care, adoption, feel too big and too scary.
Well-meaning acquaintances ask “when will you have children of your own?”
I tell them I already have three.
My children call me by my first name as they stand next to me in the pharmacy line. Their voices tumble over each other, words rolling from their mouths.
“Are you their sister?” The tech glances between us.
“She’s my mom,” my daughter replies, as if it is obvious.
“I’m her mom,” I confirm.
The tech does not respond.
I am a young mother. I have never given birth. My husband, my family, and I do not share any connection between us but love.
What a beautiful thing that DNA has no say on adoration.
Ansley Haines is a southern writer who lives with her wonderful husband, beautiful children, snore-y dogs, and ornery cat. She enjoys exploring memory through memoir and wearing mismatched socks.