If I could go back in time, 33 years ago today, and do that day all over again, I would not have walked away. I would not have left the hospital without my baby boy held securely in my arms.

After having three days with my newborn son, the fateful day had come for me to relinquish my parental rights. A plan had been made and now I had to follow through: I moved away from home to carry out my pregnancy in secrecy, and then give my baby to someone else, so no one would know I was pregnant before I was married.

I had agreed to make an adoption plan totally out of fear and shame. And I didn’t know how to get out of it. I didn’t even know that I could.

In hopeless resignation I packed up my personal belongings from the hospital room. I had been directed to walk down the hallway to a room where the social worker would be waiting for me. She was standing beside a table in a room that felt dark and cold and lifeless, or maybe that was just me.

There were papers on the table. Legal papers. I believe she briefly explained that the papers stated I would be giving up custody of my son. She pointed to the line where I was required to sign my name. And so I did.

At 19 years of age, three days post-pardum, without any independent legal advice or counselling, I signed my name to a document that would permanently and forever sever all legal familial ties to my son. I would be stripped of my identity as his mother.

I placed the pen on the table, and walked out of the room, totally broken and dejected. Yet I didn’t shed a tear.

I turned right as I entered the hallway, only to see a nurse standing there to the left of the doorway. The nurse stood there, quiet and still, with compassion in her eyes, and my baby boy cradled in her arms. I continued walking.

Then something, maybe Someone, made me pause my footsteps. I turned my head back longing for one more glance at my precious newborn baby.

At that moment, when I turned my head to look back at him, his tiny head turned and looked toward me. I saw this tiny human look in my direction, sensing my presence and recognizing my scent. I hesitated briefly, then turned away and kept walking. I walked away feeling worthless and ashamed.

It’s hard going back to that memory, that is still so clear in my mind’s eye.
I see a baby who knew his mother.
A nurse who realized that I wanted my baby, perhaps even that I was worthy of motherhood, and that we belonged together.
And I see my younger self who was utterly broken and defeated, believing she was deserving of this punishment, and that she owed her baby to someone else.

That is the memory that plays over and over again in my mind like a video clip on repeat. That is the moment I wish I could do over. My deepest regret is that I didn’t run back to my baby boy, take him into my arms, and never ever let go.

I still don’t know how I could have been so bound by shame, and fear of what others would think of me, so weak and insecure, as to abandon one of my own. It’s just not natural.

What I wouldn’t give to do that day over again.