There are stories that don’t begin where we think they do.
Mine didn’t begin with Paul.
It began with loss.
When my firstborn daughter, Angie, was taken from me by the state, something inside me broke open and never fully closed again. I remember sitting outside the DHS building, convinced—irrationally, desperately—that my baby was somewhere inside those walls. I planned and replanned ways to wedge open a locked door, to sneak in and steal her back.
I thought it through enough times to realize how impossible it was. I didn’t know where she was. I was homeless by then. Even if I could reach her, where would I take her?
Still, I sat there.
Grief makes you imagine impossible things because reality is unbearable.
Losing Angie didn’t just break my heart—it changed the way I moved through the world. I didn’t yet know how to grieve in healthy ways. I only knew how to survive. And sometimes survival looks confusing when viewed from the outside.
What I did understand—even then—was love.
I loved fiercely, even when I didn’t yet know where to place that love safely.
That loss left a hole in my heart, and I believed—naively, desperately—that another child might fill it. I assumed it would be a girl. I was young. I didn’t yet understand that grief doesn’t work that way.
After Angie, after abuse, abandonment, and a first love that taught me how deeply loving could hurt, I made a decision: I would never love a man again. Not like that. My heart wasn’t guarded—it was dark. Closed. Black with pain.
Then, one ordinary day while shoe shopping, I met Paul’s father.
He was handsome. Enchanting. Incredibly intelligent. I hung on his every word—not because I was falling in love, but because I admired his mind. Marriage never crossed my mind. I didn’t want it. I didn’t believe in it anymore.
What I did believe in was choice.
If I were going to bring another child into the world, I wanted to choose wisely. I was no longer trusting love. I was trusting discernment. Biology. Stability. I wanted to give my child every advantage I could, even if I couldn’t yet give them safety everywhere else.
I didn’t understand then that a child doesn’t come to heal a wound.
I only understood that my heart was aching, and I was reaching for something that felt like hope.
I never found out the sex of the baby I was carrying.
I didn’t ask.
I didn’t check.
I was certain.
I believed—deep in my spirit—that God would give me a daughter. That He would fill the aching place Angie had left behind.
So when the doctor said, “It’s a boy,” I remember answering in disbelief. Not disappointment in a child—but shock that what I believed was a promise hadn’t come true.
And then they placed Paul in my arms.
And I felt love again.
Instantly. Completely.
I was hooked.
I didn’t love him because he healed me.
I loved him because he was mine.
And something in me remembered how to live.
I had never imagined having a son. That thought had never entered my mind. But the moment I held him, my heart was no longer black—at least not where my children were concerned. Not where my family lived.
Looking back now, I feel tenderness toward the woman I was then. She didn’t always make perfect choices—but she loved fiercely, trusted deeply, and kept going even when her heart felt unbearably heavy. She made decisions with the information, strength, and resources she had at the time—not the wisdom she carries today.
As Paul grew, he showed me who he was early on. Most mornings, he would come to me with questions before the day even began.
“Mom,” he’d ask, “what does — mean?”
Big words. Curious words. Thoughtful words.
One morning, he asked, “Mom, what’s bestiality?”
I remember pausing—because how exactly does a mother answer that?
So I did the only thing that felt both honest and safe. I told him we needed to get the dictionary out. And we did.
I knew he was highly intelligent long before any teacher told me so. The schools eventually placed him in Gifted and Talented programs, but by then it felt like confirmation, not discovery. I was proud, yes—but more than that, I understood something quietly and clearly: the way I had chosen his father mattered.
When Paul was still little, I let him go spend Christmas with his grandparents, something I had done many times before. They were good to him, and I loved that he had them. That year, his father was visiting from California, where he had moved, remarried, and had other children.
That night, I felt it.
An overwhelming, unexplainable sense that something wasn’t right.
I needed to go get him. Now.
They asked me to wait until morning, as planned. Even though every instinct in my body screamed otherwise, I agreed.
That night, Paul was taken to California.
I was crushed. Devastated. Ruined.
My heart shattered in a way I didn’t think was possible again. I felt betrayed—not just by his father, but by his grandparents, whom I had trusted. I questioned everything about myself as a mother.
Did I do something wrong?
Was I not enough?
Did he not have what he needed with me?
Those questions didn’t come from truth—they came from shock and fear.
Even then, one thing never wavered: I knew who his mother was.
And I knew I would not stop fighting.
His grandmother was sorry. Truly sorry. But by then, sorry couldn’t undo what had been done.
It took over a year of legal fighting to bring my son home. During that time, Paul was placed in a mental facility. Later, he told me that was where he spent his birthday—alone.
Some details blur with time.
The pain does not.
One day, after months of fighting, his father called me.
“I think we should come to an amicable agreement,” he said.
He knew he had no leg left to stand on.
He told me he would put Paul on the next plane and send him home.
When Paul walked off that plane, my heart was whole again.
My world was right again.
He had grown—at least a foot taller—and somehow even more handsome.
My little man.
I didn’t ask him to explain what he had endured.
I just brought him home, fed him, held him close, and let love do what words couldn’t.
As the years passed, Paul grew into a man. My one and only son, among many sisters. Three step-sisters. Two half-sisters.
And the one sister who started this entire journey.
Angie.
When Paul’s youngest sister, Dayla, was a toddler, he was a teenager—old enough to be careful, but still young enough to play. He played with her so sweetly and so lovingly.
He would flip her upside down, just for a moment, while she squealed with joy and laughter, and say, completely serious, “Give me all your money!”
She laughed every time.
And every time, my heart leapt with joy watching him—my son, gentle and playful, loving without reservation.
I had searched for Angie quietly for years—not with desperation anymore, but with hope that had learned patience.
One year ago, in August, my sister called me. My niece, Lara, had a DNA match—a first cousin. A girl.
My sister knew immediately. There were no other missing pieces that fit.
It was Angie.
Angie began asking about her siblings. When I told her she had a brother, she was curious. Interested. She wanted to meet Paul.
When they met, I wasn’t there.
It didn’t matter.
They had an instant connection.
Angie noticed things about Paul right away. His kindness. His thoughtfulness. The way he listened. How considerate he was—neat, tidy, attentive in ways that felt rare. She saw his intelligence, too, and the way his mind worked.
She told me she could spend hours in deep conversation with him—the kind that makes time disappear. She said she had never known anyone quite like him.
They understood each other.
After meeting Paul, Angie was in love. She was overtaken by him—emotionally attached in a way she couldn’t explain.
Paul felt the same.
When the two of them were together, it felt as though time stood still. There was no yesterday, and no need to think about tomorrow. They were simply happy in each moment they shared.
They were both whole for the first time.
And with only a mother’s eyes, I recognized it for what it truly was.
Closure.
Not the kind that erases pain—but the kind that finally lets love rest.
Angie calls Paul her soul mate. She believes it’s epigenetics—the way a mother’s longing, grief, and love imprint themselves before a child is ever born. I carried Paul while my heart was still reaching for a daughter. Maybe some things are carried forward in ways we don’t yet fully understand.
What I understand now is this: families are not defined by perfect beginnings or uninterrupted timelines. They are defined by return. By recognition. By love that finds its way back, even after long detours.
God didn’t give me the child I expected.
He gave me the child I needed—and the child who needed me.
And now, when I look at my children—grown, carrying their own joys and struggles, loving their own children—I see it clearly.
Nothing was wasted.
Nothing was lost beyond repair.
Love found its way.
And it still does.
A Letter to My Children
If you are reading this now—as adults, as parents yourselves—I want you to know this:
I made choices with the information and strength I had at the time. Not with the clarity I have now. I didn’t always know the right thing to do. I only knew how deeply I loved you and how hard I was trying to protect what mattered most.
There were moments when fear sat beside love. Moments when instinct and reason didn’t agree. Moments when the weight of the past made the present harder than it needed to be.
If any part of my story confused you, hurt you, or left you with questions, I hope this helps you understand me better—not as a perfect mother, but as a human one.
I loved you fiercely—even when I was still learning how to love without fear.
And I am still learning.
