I own nothing, but I love Kirsten, anyway.
Kirsten held her first-born son in her arms and marveled at his perfect cheekbones and his beautiful eyes that were the image of his father. She unwrapped the tightly wound receiving blanket to count his long fingers and pink toes. She rewrapped him and held him close to her, reveling in the sweet baby smell.
Too soon the nurse came to take the baby back to the nursery. Kirsten gently kissed her son and relinquished him to her capable arms. Then with tears in her eyes she signed the paperwork her lawyer had sent, relinquishing him forever to perfect strangers.
On his first birthday she went to the park and released a rainbow of balloons, pretending that he was beside her, delighting in the ful display. She spent the afternoon sobbing as she tried to explain to him why she chose to place him for adoption, why she and his daddy were never meant to be. She fell asleep softly whispering the name she had given to him.
On his second birthday she went to the park and fed the ducks, pretending that he was tugging at her hand and tossing pieces of whole wheat bread to the hungry birds. She apologized for the lack of balloons, explaining her new boyfriend's environmental concerns regarding latex and string. That night she got drunk and made love to Sandy for the first time.
On his third birthday she went to the gynecologist and confirmed in impending arrival of his sibling. She rubbed her belly and mourned the choice she had made. If only she had known about Sandy, he would have been an excellent stepfather.
On his fifth birthday she wept while reading the sign at the elementary school announcing the registration dates for kindergarteners. She held her toddler close and prayed to a God she wasn't sure she believed in, asking Him to please watch over her oldest son.
On his twentieth birthday she went to court and became the legal guardian for a boy whose mother relinquished him to perfect strangers. She opened her heart and forgave herself at last.