One more year. There isn’t much to say or share with the silence of another birthday. Forty years. I should be used to it. But somehow it is more difficult. Perhaps the milestone. The marking of time passed. The truth is it never changes. The truth is, I always want to go back. Go to the moment just before we were separated and change the script. Rewrite it so we end up together, the way it should be. The way, I’m sure, God intended. That would have been better, right, perfect. Instead I count another year, accepting that the unnatural act of separating a mother and child happened to me twice, and yet, I was the recipient of the blessings of my other two children, both separated from their birth mothers. None of this could ever make sense. No sense except that somewhere under all of this is love. Love for all of us who were injured and broken and came out on the other side not whole but human. And the love continues, never broken, never given up, never separated. Always there.