Introduction

This is a true story and a work in progress. At first, my purpose in writing it down was to chronicle how my adopted Russian children came to my life, to create a shared history, even if it wasn't biological. I was writing it, as they say, for posterity. Later, when clouds gathered and my Russian childrens' fate became unclear, and it didn't seem like I was going to have any posterity, writing the story down eased my pain.

Writing it was my justification, too. I thought maybe I'd self-publish it and when some insensitive lout asked me at a neighborhood party why we didn't have kids, I'd shove the book in his hands. You really want to know? Read this.

Sometimes, my writing became my child-substitute. Creative works are offspring of a sort, right?

In the end, although this is not the end but the beginning, the journal of my struggle to have a family has to go back to that posterity word. Maybe I did write it down for posterity; I wrote it for myself and what family I possess, and for anyone who's ever wanted something they couldn't have.