The thought came to me this morning, a whisper in the air as I walked through my kitchen to let the dogs out, and it brought a strange sigh of relief:
Maybe I shouldn’t have kids?
It didn’t come in a condemnatory tone, like the scathing replies to my essay about my failed adoption. Hours after I’d hit the publish button and sent that very personal story to my 655 subscribers, two anonymous readers shamed me for ending my adoption process with the 13-year-old boy with whom I’d had four unsupervised visits before inviting him to my home overnight:
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