There shouldn’t be any restrictions on love. However, it did for my sister. After having a biological son, she gave up her adopted daughter without feeling guilty. “She wasn’t really mine anywa,” she shrugged as I attempted to understand the cruelty.
For me, it was four simple words my sister uttered about her adopted daughter, who was four years old, “I gave her back.” “There are moments that shatter you, crack open your chest, and leave you gasping for air.”

When my sister Erin gave birth to a newborn boy, the entire family decided to come celebrate. We hadn’t seen her in months because she lived a few states away and we wanted to give her space throughout her pregnancy.

I packed my four-year-old goddaughter Lily with thoughtfully wrapped presents and a treasured teddy bear.

As we arrived to Erin’s suburban house, I saw that the yard had changed: Lily’s beloved plastic slide was gone, as was the small sunflower garden we had planted together the previous summer.

“Everyone, meet Noah!” Erin said as she answered the door, bouncing a swaddled infant in her arms. With the infant facing us, she declared.

We all cooed, and Mom reached for him right away, and Dad began taking pictures. I looked around the living room and saw that there were no more signs of Lily—no pictures on the wall, no toys lying around, no drawings of stick figures.

“Where is Lily? Grinning and still clutching her gift, I inquired.

Erin’s face froze the moment I spoke her name, and she glanced at her boyfriend, Sam, who seemed very interested in turning the thermostat on.