On January 2, 1962, I met my family for the first time. I came fully dressed, with my own silverware (a Christmas gift from my foster grandmother, apparently! We still have it, of course,) and already potty trained (a serious bonus if ever there was one!) My social worker, who was bringing me to the meeting, was running late, and ran for the elevator my family had just stepped into. My mother looked at me, and leaned over to whisper to my dad, "That's her!" Our hearts met in that moment, and somehow, in this wide world, I was already theirs, and they were already mine.
It strikes me as funny that they had to go "home" for the night, which for that night was actually my aunt and uncle's home, to think about whether or not they actually wanted to take me for keeps. (Yes, the similarily to adopting a pet is not lost on me! Haha!) Mom spent the entire night sick with anxiety that something would go wrong, and somehow, I wouldn't be theirs after all.
