09/21/2026
“Mama, you are peach and I am brown. Is my other mommy brown too?”
That was the question tonight.
Her other mommy isn’t something we have ever hidden from her. We have prayed for her for as long as she can remember, and that was very intentional. She has seen pictures of her. We have talked about her. Our daughter knows she is adopted and knows she has another mommy. She’s newly five, so obviously she understands all of that about as much as a five year old can understand something so big.
We also talk A LOT about how beautiful she is. We do affirmations every day. We talk about her beautiful brown skin and those gorgeous curls because I want her growing up hearing those things at home. I want her to know that every single part of her is beautiful, even the parts that don’t look anything like me.
Apparently, according to her, I am “peach.”
So when she asked if her other mommy was brown too, I just answered her.
“Yes, baby. She is. And you look just like her and your brother. Do you want to see her picture again?”
“Oh, cool.”
And that was basically it.
She didn’t care about seeing the picture again. She got the information she came for and apparently had more important five year old business to attend to.
Meanwhile, Mama was still standing there thinking about it.
Because I know the questions will grow as she grows. Today she wanted to know if her other mommy has brown skin. Someday she may want to know more about who she looks like, where those curls came from, what her other mommy was like or why certain parts of her story happened the way they did.
Some of those questions I’ll be able to answer. Some I probably won’t.
But more than having all the answers, I want her to always feel safe asking me the questions.
I never want her to look at my face first and wonder if talking about her other mommy is going to hurt Mama’s feelings. I don’t want her to think curiosity means disloyalty or that wondering about where she came from somehow takes something away from the family she has here.
I know who I am. I’m her Mama.
But I’m not the only mother in her story, and I’ve never needed to pretend that I am.
There is another woman who carried her and gave her life. When I look at my daughter’s beautiful brown skin and some of her features, I can see pieces of a woman who came before me.
Right now there is no contact with her other mommy, and the reasons for that aren’t mine to share publicly. Those pieces of the story belong to my daughter.
But no contact doesn’t mean we don’t talk about her. We pray for her. We have pictures. We answer questions honestly when they come. We make sure our daughter knows that wondering about where she came from is always safe here.
I believe biological connections matter. I also know adoption stories are complicated, and not everything can be wrapped up neatly with a pretty little bow. There are parts of my daughter’s story I simply cannot control.
What I can control is the kind of home she grows up in.
A home where adoption isn’t a secret. Where her first mother isn’t a forbidden subject. Where brown skin and curly hair are celebrated loudly. Where she can ask questions without worrying about my feelings. Where she never has to erase where she came from to prove that she belongs here.
Because loving my daughter means loving all of her, including the pieces that didn’t come from me.
And tonight, none of this was nearly as deep to her as it was to me.
She just wanted to know if her other mommy was brown.
“Yes, baby. She is.”
“Oh, cool.”
And off she went.
And I actually love that.
Her story doesn’t always have to feel heavy just because sometimes it feels heavy to me. Tonight she didn’t need some big adoption conversation. She needed Mama to answer her question.
And then she needed to go back to being five.
