~Mirrors are more than a fixture on a wall made of breakable glass and pretty frames. They are a portal to someone's soul, reflecting all of their deeply hidden fears, dreams, and desires🪞~
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SARAI
I woke up for school tired as hell after getting no sleep because I spent all night looking for something, anything that could even remotely help me start a search for my birth mother. It was a blind search and a vain effort, but I refuse to give up. I don't even know her name. I don't know how old she is or where she comes from, and that makes me feel like I don't know where I come from. I love my moms, but they aren't my blood. I remember in the 6th grade our science teacher assigned us a family tree project to teach us about recessive and dominant genes, and I felt like I couldn't even participate because I don't know a single branch on my biological family tree as an adoptive child. My moms have never told me anything about my birth mother, and I'm afraid that it's because they're trying to protect me from her, which would mean that they have an actual reason to protect me. And what about my dad? Was he even there for my birth? Are they together? Is he out there somewhere wondering what my mom did with me? It's such an uneasy feeling not knowing. I find it hard to talk to my moms about it because I don't want them to think that they're not good enough, but keeping all of this frustration pinned up inside of me is proving to be an even bigger struggle and it's taking its toll. My 16th birthday is coming up, and my dream celebration would be a big party at the house with my moms, all of my friends, and most importantly, my birth mother present. That leaves me with two weeks to find her and connect with her. My sweet 16 won't be sweet enough without my birth mom.
As much as I wanted to stay in bed and get the rest that I had missed out on last night, I forced myself to get up and go take a shower. I went through my skin care routine and left my face bare of makeup, applying lashes and lip gloss only. I kept my butterfly locs down and relaxed, touching the top of my butt. As I got dressed, I randomly started thinking about what my birth mom's style must be like. Is she more elevated y2k baddie, or office boss babe? Does she prefer heels or sneakers? Skirts or jeans? I bet she's beautiful. She's probably all mysterious and captivating. I wonder what she does for a living. I don't even know if she's alive. That thought caused me to still and look up into the mirror. At least I don't look like the mental turmoil that I'm going through.
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