In Chicago, Theresa Reid and her husband had lucrative professional careers and a beautiful home. What was missing from their lives was children. But they knew that in Eastern Europe there were children who were missing parents—and they set out to find their family.
There were self-doubts and gut-wrenching fears; mountains of paperwork and nerve-wracking interviews; agonizing choices and false starts. There was the painful awareness of thousands of children languishing in poorly funded orphanages, waiting with little hope for someone to embrace them and bring them home. And there were byzantine bureaucracies and poverty-stricken conditions in the former Soviet Republic—where, beyond the borders they crossed and the obstacles they navigated with fierce determination, two little girls waited.
This is Theresa Reid's emotionally candid, vividly detailed account of how Natalie and Lana came to be her daughters—a journey that not only to Moscow and Kiev but into the deepest parts of a mother's heart. She addresses the personal issues that arise for many an adoptive parent—including the guilt over taking children away from their roots, the unknowable mysteries of her daughters' earliest childhoods, and the slow, stumbling steps toward trust and tenderness that played out between them. For any parent, adoptive or not, this book offers both a compelling story and valuable lessons and insights into the transformative power of loving a child.
My husband and I look at the other couples with their kids, listen to the happy little sounds they are making. We look at each other. We stare at the doorway. A nurse walks in briskly with Natalie. She is all dolled up in a dark-green velvet dress with white lace collar and cuffs. Lacy little socks pulled up to her knees, and black patent shoes. She is quiet and calm as the nurse strides toward me. When the nurse thrusts her into my arms and walks away, Natalie shatters the peace with shrieks. No one else's baby cries. Just ours. She wails at the top of her lungs. We know that this is a good thing: she is supposed to protest when she's separated from a trusted caregiver. This is good; she's attached...
Instinctively I hold her close and bounce her gently, walking slowly around the room, trailed by Marc, and whispering softly into her ear, in a slow singsong, "Nina Natalie, Nina Natalie, Nina Natalie, don't be afraid, it's okay, Nina Natalie, don't be afraid, don't be afraid."
We, of course, are terrified.
