I gave birth to a baby girl at 17 and gave her up the same day. I spent the next 15 years carrying the guilt of that decision. Later, I married a man with an adopted daughter. I thought the bond I felt with her was just a coincidence… until she took a DNA test for fun.
I was 17 when I had her. A girl. Seven pounds, two ounces, born on a Friday in February at the general hospital.
I held her for 11 minutes before the nurse came back in. I counted every minute, pressing my baby’s tiny fingers against my chest and memorizing her weight the way you memorize something you know you’re about to lose.
My parents were waiting outside that room, and they had already made the decision for me.
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