I only heard from her once. She emailed two years ago after reading a column I’d written. In it, I mentioned I had friends I’d been avoiding because they had children the same age mine would have been had she lived.

This woman said she could relate. Said she’d been doing the same thing. Every time she’d found herself around a child of a certain age, she’d feel the stabbing pain that accompanied the thought, “That’s how big she’d be now.”

Except her daughter hadn’t died. She’d been given up for adoption.

The woman witnessed no teething or crawling or first steps. Never had her little one sneak into her shower or crawl into her bed in the middle of the night. She had as many nevers as me.

I saved her email and read it several times. It’s strange how you can know about something-like adoption, for instance–but not really see it for what it is: Not just a choice, but a loss. I’m embarrassed I didn’t see it that way until it she showed it to me.

The generosity of what she and others like her have suffered in order to ensure their child has a good life is humbling. That a mother could be selfless enough to make that big a sacrifice . . . I believe it says something about what mothers should be. Mothers are supposed to look out first for the best interest of their child, regardless of the personal pain such a decision might bring.

I know that not every woman who gives a child up for adoption does so for selfless reasons. But I also know that not every woman who keeps her child does so because she wants to be a mother. They’re often shamed into keeping a child whose life would’ve been better had they not.

I doubt giving up a child is a one-time-only pain. It wouldn’t be something you’d do, then forget. It wouldn’t be like yanking a tooth–an instant of hurt, then not another thought after the wound has closed.

Mothers who have had a child die continue to receive sympathy, even many years later, from those who respectfully acknowledge the loss. I wonder if moms who “lost” a child to adoption are afforded that same sort of regard, if people who are aware of what they sacrificed ever mention or recognize that loss.

I wonder how Mother’s Day feels to them.

In the email from the woman who wrote to me once, she admitted to constantly scanning faces in crowds, hoping to spot a child who bore some resemblance to her. When shopping, she sometimes couldn’t resist going to the children’s section, looking at outfits that might fit her daughter. She knew she couldn’t properly care for her baby, so she took great care in choosing parents who could. She didn’t regret the decision. She knew it was right. But knowing didn’t make that loss disappear.

I read recently that the Saturday before Mother’s Day is now recognized as Birthmother’s Day. While the nod of recognition is nice, my initial impulse was that a separate day isn’t needed. Maybe they weren’t the ones who stayed up nights when the child was sick and traded their cool car for a mini van. Maybe they weren’t the ones who drank after a toddler or changed diapers or cleaned vomit or did any of the many disgusting things a parent will do. But for every single rough time they missed, they missed out on dozens of sweet ones. The ones that make it worthwhile.

These women are still mothers, regardless of whether they raised the child or made the sacrifice that allowed someone else to be blessed.

And as a mother myself, I consider it an honor to share this day with them.

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