‘Adoption not a neat narrative, but I’ve been open with our child’
- trushali Kotecha
- Mar 23
- 5 min read
TNN / Preeta Sukhtankar / Mar 2, 2025, 04:10 IST
DAUGHTER DEAREST: Ayesha, 11, knows the full story of her adoption. There's also a video of the day she first came home
If there’s one thing I carry with immense pride as I approach what some might call ‘middle age’, it is the story of how I became a mother. Not through the conventional path of biology, but through a journey shaped by destiny, longing, and an abundance of grace. It’s a story I’ve shared with my daughter Ayesha over the years — a story of how she came into my life, not through birth, but through a bond that feels as deep and unshakable as any formed by blood.
We adopted Ayesha when she was just four months old. I remember the first time I held her as if it were yesterday. The nurse at the children’s home placed her in my arms, and for a moment, she wriggled slightly, as if testing the warmth of this new embrace. But then, almost instinctively, she nestled her tiny head into the curve of my arm. In that quiet, fleeting moment, I felt it — the unmistakable certainty that I was her mother, and she was my daughter. It wasn’t a gradual realisation; it was immediate, overwhelming, and utterly transformative. From that day on, I was hers, and she was mine.
The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotions. While we waited for her bloodwork and paperwork to be processed, I found myself constantly thinking about her. I wondered how she was feeling during this transition, whether she sensed that her life was about to change forever. I had visited Bal Asha (the children’s home) earlier, so I could picture her there — sleeping in her tiny cot, surrounded by other babies in their own little beds. It was bittersweet to imagine that she might somehow know she was going home to her parents and that she had a place in the world waiting for her.
"My co-parent and I are living proof that a family doesn’t have to fit a traditional mould to be strong. Though we are divorced, our bond remains unbreakable, and Ayesha has never once witnessed any discord between us" Preeta Sukhtankar
The day she finally came home is etched in my heart forever. We filmed the moment so she could one day see how much love and joy surrounded her arrival. To this day, that video is her favourite. She loves watching it, reliving the sheer happiness of that day. It’s a small gift I’d recommend to every adoptive parent: a tangible reminder of the joy their child brought into their lives, even before they could fully understand it. In the video, you can hear her squeal with excitement when she sees me again. That sound still happens every time I hold her close. It’s a reminder that, from the very beginning, she was eager to come home — to be ours.
Adoption is not a simple story, and I’ve never tried to simplify it. It’s not a neat narrative of fate or destiny, nor is it a story of one family’s miracle. It’s a mosaic of moments — some filled with grace and joy, others with sacrifice and heartbreak. I’ve always known that I couldn’t hide this complexity from Ayesha. Her story is hers to own, and I’ve made it a point to share it with her openly, with respect for its beauty and its challenges.
When I first told my family about Ayesha’s adoption, their reactions were mixed. My Aji, in her seventies, worried that I shouldn’t tell Ayesha the truth because she looked so much like our family. But for me, silence wasn’t an option. To hide her story would have felt like living in the shadows, and I couldn’t do that — not to her, and not to myself. My Aji’s perspective was shaped by a different time, one where such things weren’t spoken of openly. While I loved her deeply, I knew this was my journey to navigate, not hers. My mother shared her own fears with me much later. She wondered if she could love Ayesha as much as she loved my sisters’ children. But from the moment she laid eyes on Ayesha, she was smitten. Her love for Ayesha is as fierce and unconditional as it is for any of her grandchildren. It’s a testament to the power of love — how it transcends boundaries, categories, and bloodlines. Love simply is.
Ayesha is 11 now. The past decade has brought me countless moments of joy and tenderness with her — moments that have become the fabric of my heart. But what makes these moments precious isn’t their rarity; it’s the fact that they are ours. Whether it’s brushing her hair, watching her win her first gold medal, or explaining the onset of her first period, each moment feels monumental in its own way.
I’ve made sure to surround Ayesha with a diverse support system — one that reflects the many ways love and family can take shape. My co-parent and I are living proof that a family doesn’t have to fit a traditional mould to be strong. We’ve known each other since I was 20 and were married for well over a decade. Soon after Ayesha came home, we chose to live separately, but we’ve never wavered in our commitment to parent her as one. Though we may be divorced on paper, our bond remains unbreakable, and our daughter has never once witnessed any discord between us. Instead, she’s been surrounded by pure, unfiltered love and a friendship that defies conventional definitions of divorce. For her, the dreaded D-word carries a very different meaning — one that represents independence and space for both of her parents. Among her closest friends are kids with same-sex parents, single dads, and others whose families are unconventional. Divorced parents are the norm in her circle, and she has several friends who have been adopted too. Normalising these conversations, making them part of the everyday fabric of our lives, is something I’ve always prioritised. I want Ayesha to grow up with an open heart and an open mind, knowing that love is love, and every family is beautiful in its own way.
My co-parent contributes just as much — if not more — to her upbringing. He drives her to early football games and makes perfect grilled cheese toasts, while I’m buried in work calls. Our dynamic, while rare in today’s world, works for us and most importantly, it works for Ayesha.
It isn’t always easy, and I know it won’t get easier as Ayesha grows up, especially as she navigates the complexities of being a teenager, with all the hormones and hard truths the world throws at her. But what I do know is that I can arm her with love and a sense of belonging, so she feels prepared to face whatever comes her way.
Recently, her friend said that the police could come and take her away because she’s adopted. During one of our quiet bedtime story sessions, she hesitantly shared this with me. My first reaction was sadness, and as I held back tears, I decided to use this moment as a teaching opportunity instead. I explained how the legalities of birth certificates work and walked her over to the cupboard where we keep hers. I showed her the document, pointing out her name and mine clearly printed on the official stamp paper. I reassured her that no one — absolutely no one, least of all the people who gave birth to her (I never refer to them as her parents) — could ever take her away from me.
After she fell asleep, I shed a quiet tear. The world isn’t always fair, and that little boy was likely just trying to get a reaction out of my brave girl. I know there will be more moments like this, more questions, and more challenges. All I can do is to ensure that we have the tools to make it okay, to remind her that she is loved, she belongs, and she is safe — no matter what.
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