When the child I've raised for seven years says, "you're not my real mom" it makes me wonder what a "real mom" is. Maybe it's something other than I know how to do. Maybe being a "real mom" truly is DNA. Maybe it really is about sharing nappy hair and brown skin. Maybe it's true that I can't do it.
When the next sentence comes out though, and she says, "And I'm not your real daughter" I stop my questioning. With this one statement she uncovers what she's tried so hard to hide. She is so fragile. She doesn't know that real daughter is exactly who she is to me. Is exactly how I see her. Is exactly who she is. Nothing she could do could undo that truth. No amount of sass and back talk. No amount of hiding. Not that she comes from Africa. Not that I have a biological daughter as well. Not that she has a biological mom who can't care for her. None of this makes her less my daughter.
Sometimes we need to hear love proclaimed out loud. And so I do. I tell her who she is. And all the beautiful, true words bring tears. We are a mess. Both of us. Real mom and real daughter.
