The walls were supposed to be pink

THE FIRST STEP was a text

"Hey family! S (my ex-husband) and I took a really big step today and we want you all to be included. We have submitted the first of many payments/paperwork to adopt. We will be adopting a girl from Bulgaria. This is just the first step to what will most likely be a long and stressful process, but we want you to be involved and able to support us along the way. It will probably be another 2-3 years before we actually have our little girl. We are excited and feel like this is definitely the best decision for our family. 🤍"

THE SECOND STEP was a mountain of paperwork

Adoption is a challenging process. We have so much paperwork to fill out. We have so many emails to send. We have so many calls to make. We have so much writing to do! Deep breath. It will be worth it.

THE THIRD STEP was a loan

Adoptions are expensive. Really, really expensive. But we are ready to grow our family. We want this. We’ve talked about adoption since before we were even dating. It is one of the things that drew me to him, something we both wanted. We will make it happen. We take out a loan. I sign the papers willingly with a smile on my face, one step closer.

Three years later, I’m still paying off that loan. I’m paying $700 a month for a daughter I don’t have. Adoptions are expensive.

THE LAST STEP was an email

“You need to be the one to do it. I can’t send that email. Please just do it for me.”

My ex-husband emails the adoption agency to tell them there’s been a change of plans and we will no longer be going through with the adoption.

“Would you like us to save your case? Maybe you’ll decide you’d like to later?”

"No need. We aren’t together anymore. Delete our file" Send.

The walls were supposed to be pink

I adore my home. My spacious bedroom is a favorite, as it’s where I receive extra cuddles from my son each night. I cherish his room, which has transformed from cribs to race car beds. My bathroom is a sanctuary where I unwind with a bubble bath, lavender candles, and a cup of peppermint tea. The kitchen is where my son and I bake cookies for his teachers, though we end up eating most of them ourselves. The living room is filled with memories, with goldfish crumbs in the carpet and popcorn kernels tucked under the couch cushions from countless movie nights with my son. I love my home, but I don’t love my guest room. I don’t love my guest room because that room was supposed to be hers. My daughter's. My little girl from Bulgaria whom I had been praying for since I was a child myself.

As I pass by that room, all I can envision is what might have been. All I notice is what’s absent. A crib should be in the corner. A rocking chair should sit beside the closet. The walls should be pink, but instead, they are beige. The room remains empty because she isn’t here and she never will be.

That damn minivan

“I want to be a mommy.” This was my answer pretty much anytime anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. The answer didn’t change as I did grow. Even in my 20s, the answer was the same. I want to be a mom. More than anything, I want to be a mom.

After PJ arrived, we needed two cars, and my dream was on the verge of becoming a reality! I always wanted to be one of those moms who drove a minivan. I envisioned that van packed with coolers and luggage for road trips to Disney. I imagined it filled with kids loudly singing annoying karaoke as I drove them to soccer games. I wanted that van to be big enough to fit my growing family. We sign the documents, and I get into the driver's seat, put on my sunglasses, and turn up some Bluey on the speakers. "Alright, soccer mom Amber is in action."

Today, people still ask me why I drive a minivan if it’s just me and PJ. My answer is always the same: “Well…I thought there would be more of us.”

I still pay for the minivan every month too. I can’t wait until it's paid off. I can’t wait until I can sell my "dream car" and never drive a minivan again.

The death of a dream

Many people believe that divorce is similar to a very difficult breakup. Many people are mistaken. When you get divorced, you are not merely mourning the loss of a relationship. You are mourning the death of your future. You are mourning the death of your dreams. You are saying goodbye to a life you and your spouse were actively building together. A life neither of you will get to experience now.

We won’t go to Europe together.

We won’t celebrate each summer with big family vacations and road trips.

We won’t retire in Orlando and eat dinner in Epcot every night.

We won’t grow old together. Inhale. Exhale.

We won’t fly to Bulgaria and adopt a little girl. No princess dresses. No manicure dates. No wedding dresses. No stomping around the house wearing mommy’s lipstick and high heels. That dream is over, and you have to let it die along with everything else. PJ would have been a great big brother. Let it die. I wish I could give him a sibling. Let it die. I miss her and I never even met her. Just let it die.

3 years later

This evening, I prepared a cup of tea and baked some peanut butter cookies. Wrapped in a large, fluffy blanket, I settled in to start writing a new blog post. PJ called out to me, so I hurried upstairs to hand him his beloved stuffed animal. On my way back to my cozy writing spot downstairs, I passed by the guest room.The walls are beige.

...

I kept PJ's rocking chair. I kept all the burp cloths. I kept all the swaddle blankets and sleep sacks. A canister of pink paint sits on my attic floor gathering dust, and there it will stay. Some dreams are harder to kill than others.