Mothers’ Day has always been a tough one at our house. My wife, Amy, came from a home where she was abused by her father and her mother did nothing to stop it, as long as he provided the meal-ticket.

At fifteen, Amy went into foster care where she was used to raise younger foster children while the parents partied. My daughters suffered unimaginable abuse at the hand of their birth-mother in Russia. My youngest son, Denney, also from that country, was betrayed by his birth parents, too.

Sarah was five when she joined our family. She was plenty old enough to know what was going on and to play a part in life-altering decisions. She’s now fourteen. Recently Sarah came to me and said: “I miss Mama Oksana.” (That’s the name we have always used for the birth-mother of our daughters). “I used to hate her. Is that okay?” Tears filled my eyes as I wrapped my arms around her and told her it was not only okay, but good. Then I told her I loved her and that I was sorry it was so hard. […]