For much of my adult life, I quietly carried the pain of unanswered questions about why I had no husband or children. Years of infertility and heartbreak left me living alone in a quiet house filled with books and plants. Though I built a peaceful life, loneliness lingered. Adoption had always been a quiet hope, yet fear held me back—until one day, the ache of being alone pushed me through the doors of a children’s shelter.

There, I met Lila—a delicate, soft-spoken girl drawing a house with big windows “to see the stars.” She had experienced illness and instability through multiple foster homes. When she asked, “Do you think someone would want me again?” I knew, in my heart, that I already did. After weeks of paperwork and preparation, she came home with me, her tiny backpack carrying more hope than belongings. When she first whispered “Mom,” something deep inside me healed.

Just a month later, our lives changed again. A group of professionals arrived with unexpected news: Lila’s late biological parents had left a trust and a heartfelt letter to be given only to someone who adopted her out of true love. Their words were filled with gratitude for the person who would become her family. Visiting the home they had once prepared for her—and that resembled her drawings—marked a new beginning for us both.

Lila began to thrive. Her laughter, once hesitant, returned with full brightness. The garden filled with joy as she ran through it, chasing butterflies, leaving traces of healing in her wake. Our home grew into a place of warmth and belonging.

She would sometimes tell me, with complete certainty, that her first parents chose me because I looked like someone who needed love too. And she was right.

In loving her, I found not only motherhood—but wholeness.