“We Are Adopting!”
I can still hear my parents shouting the announcement to my older sister, older brother, and me as if it happened yesterday. It was about thirteen years ago. I was only eight, and that day I learned my life was about to change in ways I couldn’t yet imagine.
I leapt into my mom’s lap, searching her eyes. “Is this some kind of joke?” I wondered. “Are we really adopting a baby?” I had wanted a little sister since I was a toddler myself, and now it seemed like my wish might come true. My parents told me not to get my hopes up just yet, but soon after, the process began—we were adopting a baby girl from Ethiopia, Africa.
At eight years old, I didn’t understand the full weight of adoption. I had no worries or doubts. When I learned I would share my room with this baby, my excitement soared. I felt honored to be trusted with her, thrilled to have a living, breathing baby doll right beside me.
“Grace, you know the baby will cry at night. Will you be able to help her? You’ll be the first to hear her,” my mom repeated. For some kids, this responsibility might have felt overwhelming, but for me, it was pure joy.
My dream was taking shape, and as the adoption process moved forward, I could picture myself holding a warm, tiny baby in my arms. My family shared the excitement, but I don’t think anyone could have matched mine.
We got on the waiting list to fly to Ethiopia and bring our baby home. I’ll never forget the bright, hot pink poster I made, glitter glue and marker all over, with the number thirty-eight written boldly—it meant only thirty-seven families were ahead of us. She was almost ours.
Then, just after my ninth birthday in the middle of summer, the adoption agency called with unexpected news. Two girls, nine and ten years old, were already flying from Ukraine, but the family meant to host them had backed out at the last minute. And we couldn’t say no.
At first, the idea of adopting them had never crossed my mind. I thought they would just stay for three weeks, and then go home. It sounded fun—two girls my age living with us for a short time.
They arrived late at night. I was asleep when they got to our house. The next morning, I jumped out of bed, eager to meet my new guests. They were sleeping on a mattress in the living room. I watched them quietly. Although they were sisters, you couldn’t tell. Anastasia, ten, had short, dark brown hair and a tiny button nose; her sister, Natasha, had slightly longer blonde hair, a different-shaped nose, and bright green eyes. My own hair was blonde, my eyes blue-gray, and somehow Natasha and I could have been mistaken for sisters.
Natasha was eager to play right away, while Anastasia hung back, shy. But soon Anastasia warmed up to me, and we became inseparable. My mom says we were always touching—holding hands, hugging, arms linked. Even with the language barrier, it didn’t matter. We clung to each other, knowing our time together was temporary.
For three magical weeks, we gave the girls the American dream—road trips, swimming, exploring, and eating all kinds of food. But eventually, it was time to say goodbye. I felt my heart shatter as we drove them to the social worker in the early hours of the morning. My nine-year-old mind couldn’t comprehend the grief I felt from losing a friendship that felt like family.
That night, my mom fell asleep on the couch beside me. I slept in a puddle of tears and woke the next morning crying again. Soon after, my parents sat me down with life-changing news: we would adopt these girls and the baby. I thought it was the best of both worlds.
But then came a heartbreaking choice. Our agency asked us to choose between the baby in Ethiopia and the two Ukrainian girls. My mom asked gently, “Grace, who do you want us to adopt?”
Tears streamed down my face. I had dreamed about that little baby for over a year, but I couldn’t imagine life without Anastasia and Natasha. Through sobs, I answered, “The girls know us already, and they’re waiting for us.” And so, Anastasia and Natasha became our daughters, joining our family just a few months after we first met them.
Life wasn’t perfect. Anastasia worked hard to learn English, and soon we could communicate easily. Natasha, however, struggled with the rules and expectations of family life, eventually hating school and rebelling. My older siblings also struggled to adapt to the tension Natasha brought into our once peaceful home.
I became a perfectionist, trying never to add stress to my parents’ lives. For three years, battles were a daily occurrence—until another surprise arrived. We were adopting Dennis, an eleven-year-old boy from Ukraine.
I could have been upset, but instead, I offered my own room for him. My parents said no, creating a space in the garage for my older brother, which became Dennis’s room. During Dennis’s adoption process, we also learned of a three-year-old girl in need. Once again, I offered my room—this time, my offer was accepted. Six years after losing the chance at a baby sister, I finally had one, and I named her Lily Faith, a nod to the little faith that had guided our family through so much.
Over five years, our family grew from five to nine. Anastasia and I were homeschooled together, graduated high school together, and remain close; she was even my maid of honor. Natasha took a different path, moving out at sixteen, and now we barely communicate. Dennis, now eighteen, is training to become a pilot, and Lily Faith, ten, is thriving in public school, her bright spirit flourishing.
My oldest sister earned her master’s in early childhood education, is married, and expecting her first daughter. My oldest brother became a CPA and owns three restaurants. And me? I’m twenty-one, a newlywed, pursuing my dream of becoming a writer, still the perfectionist who hates to disappoint.
Adoption was the hardest challenge our family has ever faced. It changed our lives in ways we couldn’t have imagined—but it also made us stronger. It wasn’t a fairytale, but it was a story of resilience, love, and faith. I am who I am today because of it.
Our story is just a small piece of what our family has been through, but I hope it shows the power of a little faith. Trials come to every family, but love, determination, and hope can turn them into blessings we never expected.
