To be honest, I didn't even think it was something to be considered as possible.
Just yesterday I told my mother-in-law that one of the reasons we were drawn to adopting a child from Ethiopia was that we would be given the opportunity to meet his/her Ethiopian family. His/her birth family. His/her first family. His/her crew.
For some reason or another, the idea had been presented in such a way that we assumed it was the only way. That there would be no other possibilities.
We were wrong. They were wrong. Ends up that someone, somewhere, was wrong. Them, us... it really doesn't matter.
Thing is, here we are, a bit past two years since we first learned of our Leone. A precious, amazing, incredibly strong spirit who was left in the dead of night. Or so we were told.
It's not that I think anything was done unethically, but perhaps it's just my mama heart that refuses to let any thing else in.
What we do know? The man we interviewed at the orphanage was slimy. And his story, we could tell, was a repeat. Something for the shiny Americans. Something he told some other adopting parents the week before. I mean, seriously. The details (or rather lack of details) he fed us were the exact same ones he gave the couple sitting directly beside us. There was only one difference, and it was nothing substantial.
What could we do? I was sick, I was tired, I wanted to believe him. I tried getting a bit more assertive with my questioning, and after he went on a rampant that was translated via two or three words rather then the 500 I was expecting to hear, well. I got a bit more shy. And then pissed. At myself. Because I knew I should push more, but I wasn't clear on how exactly to do it.
I didn't know it was possible. I didn't think we could actually do something to try to find our son's someones.
Ends up we can. Ends up that other people have. Ends up that we have some talking to do.