For the past three weeks, my mom and mother-in-law have been visiting from the States! Jubilee has especially loved it, with two more women in the house to offset the incessant wrestling matches and Lego building.
“Let’s read magazines,” she suggests, handing each of us a copy of Good Housekeeping or Rachael Ray. We snuggle down beside her on the couch and obediently leaf through the mags. “Oooh, look at that cake!” she exclaims. We tell her the cake is beautiful. We love her, and she loves us. We are three generations of women.
As I study pictures of the four of us from the past three weeks, I am filled with awe at the wonder of adoption. Look at us! Not one of us looks like another. I am the spitting image of my father’s mother, not my own, and Jubilee looks nothing like her mom, of course. My mother-in-law looks nothing like any of us naturally, as we didn’t meet until I was 20. But she has a place in my heart now, and I hers, and this will never change.
For mothers and daughters are not defined by shared features or long histories, but rather by love – the kind of love that a woman extends to another woman, to whom she is committed wholeheartedly for life.