But she left me. She gave me away. She didn't want me, even though I was hers, even though my little heart loved her, even when my tiny hands held her strong fingers, her strong hands...she still wasn't strong enough to keep me. I wonder if she knows how much I think about her. How much I wonder who she is, what she's like. I wonder what her voice sounds like, what she wears,who she loves. I feel as though she has forgotten me. Left me and forgotten me. Forgotten that even though she might not care, I care. I care about her even through all this, even after she abandoned me. Even after she left me, forgot me, abandoned me. I have cried over her countless times, has she cried over me? Or am I just another. Am I just another baby who's purpose was to be left, thrown away, un cared for. Why would she do that. Why would she think it's ok. How could she. How could she even think about giving me up. Didn't she care? Didn't she?
I used to be disgusted. I felt hatred. Hatred for a woman who turned her back on me. Hatred for a woman who could not take care of me. Hatred for a woman who was so lost, so, so forgotten. I felt hatred for a woman, who felt just like me. Alone. Useless. Unworthy. I felt hatred for myself. And I was scared. Terrified, really. I could not end up like that. Having a child, giving away the next, then having another. Having another and keeping it. That was the last I heard from her. The last translated letter I read. The last speck of information I could muster from my mother. She had kept the child she had after me. I was the only one she had left.
A few weeks ago on my thirteenth birthday I found a book with my birth certificate and my mothers name and age. I found a thumbprint of hers next to mine. A small thing I can hold onto and, the only picture I have of us together. A crying baby on the lap of a just as sad young woman. A young woman with tears in her eyes. And I knew that she cared. I knew she remembered me. I knew she remembered she had named me, she had given me a name, a stamp, a mark, a reminder that she knew. She knew she had caused me pain, she knew I would cry. She knew she would have to give me up. She knew, but she walked in, and she did what she knew would save me...she signed the papers. With her fragile handwriting. Her name? Rosa. I saw her handwriting and once again I knew. She had cried. She had thought about me. She had loved me and given me a chance to make it. To make it to where I am now.
And I love her, I love her so very much
Even though she left me
