When I was about seven, I found out what adoption meant. My cousin was adopted as an infant.

I was jealous. She’d been taken by a family who wanted her. I decided for a short while that I had been adopted. It was a fantasy I hung onto – an explanation of sorts, the kind that only makes logical sense to that kid. While I thought that Tamara was lucky to have a family choose to love her, I thought that I was adopted because your real flesh & blood would not do the kinds of hateful things that my parents did to me.

At the same time, I knew that I would never have a child of my own. Instead, I would adopt. I would rescue some other poor kid from a situation like my own.

That belief has been a core part of my being for over 30 years.

I am coming to understand that it will never happen. I am coming to understand that I have to stop having imaginary conversations with children I will never have. I’m not going to have the chance to explain life the universe and everything to some kiddo who thinks I’m wonderful one minute and furious with me for not letting them eat themselves sick on candy the next.

You have to understand, I am a man who prides himself on being capable, getting things done. I don’t break down. I don’t cry. I don’t lose it. I’m known for not losing it when everyone else is long past that point. And I’m tearing up right now writing this. The one certainty in my life, the one purpose that has kept me going was this intense concentration on what a wonderful dad I was going to be. Tough and understanding. My kids were going to love me. I still have letters I exchanged with a friend which described the alternative to Boy’s Town that we were going to build together. I have the letters, but I understand that she got married and lives somewhere in Colorado now, far from our native Iowa. Of course, I’m not in Iowa any more.

The truth of the matter is that it takes money to adopt. I don’t have any. Every time I think I’m getting close to “stable” (whatever that is, right?), I lose my job or my husband loses his. He blames it on bad luck or that people are scared of our competence. I think neither one of us understands politics well enough to protect ourselves.

He never wanted kids. He said repeatedly that I’m the only person he could see having children with. (Adopting, obviously) But I’m not sure I can see having kids with him. He’s impatient and pays little attention to his surroundings.

But even his shortcomings as a possible parent aren’t the real issue. The truth is, I don’t have the room. Each kid is supposed to have their own room. There’s not enough room for us in this house, how would we cram a kid in here? How to convince a judge or an agency that I’m a good parent, who just happens to get a career and lose it within five years? Twice, now. I’m tired of starting over. When I first get home from work, I want to retreat into silence for a while. My husband can’t understand that, how is a kid for whom I’m the primary caretaker going to understand that? I’m old now. I’m tired now.

It’s time to admit that the one certainty I’ve held onto damn near my entire life is simply not going to come true. It’s time to let go. It’s time to quit having those conversations with imaginary children who will never get a chance to say their part. Please God let them go to good homes who want them as much as I do.

Please.