I've been tossing a few things around in my mind lately. I'm excited to come on board as a contributor here at Lost Daughters, and as I’ve thought about what I might post here versus on my own blog, I’ve found myself mulling over the title “Lost Daughters.” I like the title, a lot. It’s evocative and appropriate. And ultimately, the question I’ve settled on for myself at the moment is not “What makes me a lost daughter,” but “Who is the lost daughter?”
To my adoptive parents, I am not the lost daughter. The lost daughter for them is someone else, someone who was never born. She looks more like them than I do. She might have been a lover of golf, a sport I never embraced. She would probably be a little taller than I am and more solid in her bone structure. I suspect she would be a little less spacey and bookish, a little more social and practical. My parents rarely think of her anymore because they have me—the found daughter, the miracle, the answer to prayers—but make no mistake: she exists, and her story is intertwined with mine.
To my adoptive parents, I am not the lost daughter. The lost daughter for them is someone else, someone who was never born. She looks more like them than I do. She might have been a lover of golf, a sport I never embraced. She would probably be a little taller than I am and more solid in her bone structure. I suspect she would be a little less spacey and bookish, a little more social and practical. My parents rarely think of her anymore because they have me—the found daughter, the miracle, the answer to prayers—but make no mistake: she exists, and her story is intertwined with mine.