I often feel like an imposter. I’ve woven a complex tapestry of untruths for my five-year-old daughter, Lily, building a façade that teeters on the edge of deception. Each day, I employ the little white lies that come with being a single parent—“We can’t go to the toy store right now because it’s closed,” or “If you don’t hurry, I’m leaving without you.” I even perpetuate the myth of a jolly, bearded man who delivers gifts to children around the world every Christmas. One day, when I mentioned how lucky she was to receive presents, she innocently asked, “Why doesn’t Santa visit kids who are poor?” I hesitated, realizing I was on the verge of unraveling the very fabric of this cherished illusion. “Um, nevermind,” I said, redirecting her attention to something shiny.
Like many parents, I often lie awake at night, anxious about the child I’m raising. I worry about finances, my decisions, and her well-being. However, my situation is unique: Lily is not my biological daughter. I didn’t give birth to her, nor have I legally adopted her. She is a ward of the state, and while it’s challenging to see her as a statistic, that’s exactly what she is. The most delicate illusion I’ve crafted is the one surrounding our relationship. She calls me “Mommy” and believes she came from my womb, a far cry from the truth.
The chances of me ever becoming a parent in the traditional sense were slim. As a gay woman, I never seriously considered the option of artificial insemination. I had a fleeting thought about it at one point, but it didn’t resonate with me. Instead, my life took an unexpected turn when my seventeen-month-old niece, Lily, came to live with me. This was my moment to shine, much like Diane Keaton in Baby Boom, minus the handsome co-star and a fortune in baby food. My first significant shift in our relationship occurred when the nursery school staff asked if they could refer to me as her mommy. “Of course,” I replied, realizing that it would provide her with a sense of normalcy. There’s comfort in sameness, after all. Initially, hearing her call me “Mommy” felt strange, but now it feels like second nature. She sometimes calls me “poophead” too, and I’m fine with both.
Four years have flown by since Lily moved in with me. I’ve navigated this journey mostly on my own, with occasional support from friends. With no co-parent and no nearby grandparents, I’ve built my life around her care. I learned how to change diapers, install car seats, and soothe a crying baby. My social life shifted from vibrant nights out to playdates and family activities. I even chose a home based solely on the quality of the school district and adopted a cat named Gus, who Lily named after a character from Cinderella.
Throughout these years, I’ve discovered my limits: how long I can tolerate the Barney theme song, how many days I can go without a shower, and how many times my head can be bounced during early morning play sessions. More importantly, I’ve learned the profound capacity to love another person, a love so intense that it sometimes feels overwhelming. I would do anything to protect her.
It’s often said that no one can truly know if their perception of color is the same as someone else’s. It’s a subjective experience, much like how we interpret love. When Lily was three, she often responded to questions with “I can’t know” instead of “I don’t know.” It was adorable and surprisingly insightful. I’ve pondered whether my feelings for her match those of a biological mother. But I’ve concluded that comparing love is futile, and I embrace the idea that my love for her is just as valid, if not stronger.
My love has motivated me to uphold the intricate illusion of our relationship. For all intents and purposes, I am her mother. I care for her, nurture her, and comfort her. Yet, I know that one day, the truth will need to come out. There will be a moment when she asks about her origins, and I can no longer deflect with stickers or vague answers. I’ve postponed this conversation, perhaps out of a selfish desire to preserve her innocence for as long as possible. However, I know I must eventually tell her the truth about our unique bond. That day will feel like coming out all over again, a moment filled with uncertainty about her reaction. Hopefully, she won’t see me as a fraud but rather as the loving parent I strive to be.
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In conclusion, my journey as a parent has been filled with love, challenges, and the occasional web of white lies. It’s a beautiful paradox of nurturing a child who may not share my biology but has captured my heart completely.