When I Was Four, My Mother Left Me Alone in a Church—Twenty Years Later She Returned Crying, “We Need You”
Partially.
Enough.
The final version of our family was not something four-year-old Nora could have imagined.
Not the people who left returning to restore the old picture.
Something messier.
My adoptive mother remained my mother until death and after.
My biological mother became a woman I knew and sometimes cared about.
My biological father remained mostly distant.
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