I recently finished the Hulu miniseries Little Fires Everywhere, based on the novel by Celeste Ng. (I have not read the book, although I understand that the screen adaptation departs from it in important ways.) I was unaware of the plot when I clicked to watch the miniseries, and wow — it resonated with me deeply. I didn’t love the ending, which I won’t give away for those who haven’t seen it, but the show addressed heavy, complicated themes profoundly. It made a big impression on me.

In addition to looking critically at race and class differences and how people see one another, the show explores motherhood and matrescence under starkly different circumstances. There is an unwanted child and a doubly wanted child; a woman who wanted an abortion but was pressured not to get one; a woman who got an abortion; a woman who found herself unable to part with the baby she had intended to bear for another couple; a woman who experienced years of infertility and miscarriages before an abandoned baby was placed with her for adoption; and an undocumented woman living in poverty who, unable to feed herself or her infant daughter, left her at a fire station because she saw no other viable option.

The lives of the latter two women intersect in a story line that is familiar to me, and that has no easy solution. The baby’s birth mother grieves the loss of her child and wants her back. The adoptive parents who have raised her for nearly a year have bonded with her and cannot bear to lose her. Both mothers love her and very much want her. A judge must decide which mother can serve the child’s best interests. Judges make decisions like these every day, but in a situation like this, who are they to decide? The child will be traumatized either way. The answer that is arguably best for the child — both mothers, in some capacity — was not widely considered in the 1990s, when the series takes place.

Some who have read earlier posts in my Being Adopted series have had the impression that I am against adoption, which is not true. For children who are orphaned, truly unwanted, or abused, adoption is frequently the best option. Ideally, it gives the child permanency and stability, a home base to which they can be connected for life, a sense of place in the world and a loving family. It can also give infertile people a chance to be parents. In addition to being an adoptee, I have struggled with infertility and have experienced the purest, deepest love that comes from being a mother. I’ve heard the stories of both my adoptive mother and my birth mother. I empathize with all sides of the adoption triangle.

But the adoption story line in Little Fires Everywhere reminds us that frequently, women who surrender children for adoption do not do so entirely freely. The story I heard often as a child was that my birth mother had been unable to care for me or provide me a good life, so she gave me to someone who could. That story was based on speculation, but I’ve since learned that it rings true. While she was pregnant with me, my birth mother lacked a steady income and an emotionally healthy family. She already had one child for whom she struggled to provide, and she did not want to bring another baby into a dysfunctional home. In retrospect, she is confident that she made the right decision. At the time, however, she felt it was the only decision. She wrote to me, “I deliberately refused to look at you when the nurse asked if I wanted to see you, because I knew I would get attached, and would not be able to give you up, and I knew I really had no choice.”

Many have argued that such situations can be avoided with a better social safety net. In the case of the birth mother in Little Fires Everywhere, the maternal-child bond would never have been severed had the mother been provided with adequate food and the money to pay her heating bill. In my own situation, family counseling and parenting support may have been needed in addition to housing and funding. I can’t say whether that kind of support would have led my biological mother to make a different decision, and it’s hard for me to imagine what my life would look like today if she had. But wouldn’t it be in everyone’s best interests if mothers were truly making these choices of their own free will, from a place of security and empowerment, rather than from a place of desperation?

If these issues interest you, I highly recommend watching Little Fires Everywhere on Hulu. It may lead you to view the people around you with new eyes. I appreciated the miniseries so much that I plan to read the book.

Speaking of books, I’ve been slowly working my way through All You Can Ever Know by Nicole Chung. The author, like me, was adopted as an infant and located her biological family as an adult. I haven’t finished it yet, but I’ve related to so much in this memoir. Chung is Korean and was raised by a white family, so she has lived with the added complexities of trans-racial adoption that I have not experienced. Her story is not my own, but she gives a voice to so many things that I have felt and faced.

I’ve long thought about writing my own memoir about growing up adopted and finding my biological family. A few years ago, I began working on a fictionalized version of my story and also wrote a lengthy autobiographical essay about searching for my relatives. More recently, this Being Adopted series has been a vehicle for me to explore my experiences around adoption in writing, and maybe someday I will craft my history and thoughts into a memoir of my own. Reading Nicole’s memoir, however, it occurred to me that she had said everything so clearly and beautifully that I’m not sure what more I could say in my own book on the topic.

If you love someone who is adopted, or if you are thinking of adopting, add All You Can Ever Know to your reading list. And if you are an adoptee yourself, read through it. Until a year or two ago, I had never sought out the stories of other adoptees and did not recognize the benefit of hearing the voices of people whose lives had begun similarly to mine. I suppose I was in denial for most of my life about the formative and lasting effects my relinquishment and adoption have had on me. Now, it brings me comfort to hear other adoptees sharing experiences and feelings that mirror my own. Understanding how my adoption has shaped me has allowed me to know myself better than I otherwise could have. Memoirs like Chung’s are so helpful in creating that awareness and generating “a-ha” moments.

Do you have a connection to adoption? What did you think of Little Fires Everywhere and All You Can Ever Know? What other movies, books, and resources have you read that have made an impact on you with respect to adoption? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

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