I can still picture at the age of 6 standing up on the kitchen counter putting dishes away and singing, “Mommy is going to marry a new daddy.” Towering over me at 6-foot 7-inches, my new father was bigger than life. Twirling around in a beautiful dress with a poufy skirt, I was his little princess. He sat with his long legs sprawled out from underneath a child’s table while the two of us enjoyed a grape juice tea party.
My princess dress and a tea set was the first and last time my new daddy would pick out a gift especially for me. From then on, my adoptive mother would control the direction of our budding relationship.
I wonder, to a young girl who had already lost her birth parents as a newborn, and her first adoptive father to his alcoholism and domestic violence at a tender age, if any new “father” that had appeared out of the blue holding a suitcase in one hand with a mysterious doll tucked under his other arm, would have won me over.