I hate telling people that I’m adopted. Not because I’m ashamed, not because I wish I weren’t, but because people get too weird, too unnecessarily sympathetic. I say the A-word, and I can just see the discomfort settle in. They find it impossible to meet my gaze. They shuffle their feet and wring their hands. They lower their voices and offer their condolences.

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That’s the part I hate the most.

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It is true that I look nothing like the white woman who adopted me, nor did I inherit anything from the people whose last name became mine. But I didn’t just blink into existence the minute my last foster parent passed me into the arms of the woman I call Mom. My round, flat nose that I often find myself resenting came from someone, as did the black hair that becomes unbearable in sweltering Texan summers. I had a mother who loved me as I grew inside her; I had a father who lived for the day his wife gave birth. I probably had family beyond them, too. Grandparents, aunts and uncles, too many cousins to name.

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I had all these things—at least, that’s what I tell myself. Because the truth is that I don’t know anything about my past or the family that could have been mine, had it not been for China’s one-child policy. I do think about them, though, now more than I did when I was younger, and I tell myself that they think of me, too.

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I imagine my mother and father before I was born, nestled close in the darkness of their small city apartment. They whispered to each other and prayed to the gods that my mother would give birth to a healthy baby boy, a child who could grow up one day and support the family, and imagined what their son might look like. Would he inherit my father’s long face, with the protruding brow bone that always made him look pensive and stern? Or would my mother’s genes shine through, giving him softer, kinder features? Every night, they smiled as they imagined this future for themselves.

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They never spoke of a girl: the mere utterance could tempt fate, force them to make the hardest decision of their lives, result in unspeakable regret and heartache. And so they covered the cracked drywall of the tiny nursery with blue wallpaper and prayed. They pondered over names for a son and prayed. They heard stories of millions of baby girls overwhelming the nation’s orphanages, of the women who sought abortions, of couples who were fined for trying to hide their “extra” children, and they prayed harder than they ever had before.

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Did my parents ever think of what they might do if my mother gave birth to a girl? Maybe they never discussed it aloud, but surely the thought lived in the corners of their minds, a fear that they refused to entertain. When I think about the moment I was born, I can practically feel my parents’ stunned horror. My father’s face drained of color, brows drawing together in confusion; my mother’s cheeks flushed as she burst into tears that had nothing to do with the pain of bringing me into the world. There were no words that could have described the anger and grief and sorrow. Nine months of nurturing and anticipation and faithful prayers—and the gods gave them a girl, the cruelest little blessing all swaddled in hospital blankets.

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I tell myself that despite this initial anger, my parents loved me. The alternative is not a reality I’ve ever allowed myself to dwell upon. They wanted to hold me close and teach me the lullabies they learned from their mothers. They wanted to guide me toward my first steps and mark my growth on the doorframe of the room they had reserved for me. They wanted to love me, but it wasn’t enough.

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The world they lived in was unforgiving. How unfair that a parent’s love was not enough to justify raising their own child? In their country, love could not earn a decent education or secure a high-paying job. Love could not carry on the family name or ensure that they would be looked after when they grew old. Only a son could do those things, and I was their daughter.

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Their daughter.

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If they kept me, that would be the end of my family’s name. My life would be valued less, and my mother would be blamed for her inability to give birth to a son. As I grew from childhood into adulthood, I would always remain subservient to the men around me, regardless of any display of intellect or talent. I’d be married off to a man I didn’t love, and I’d rarely see my parents again, if ever at all. Was that the life they envisioned for their child?

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Of all the things I imagine when I think about my birth parents, this is the worst. I don’t want to know if the decision to send me away was easy or if it nearly killed them, but I tell myself that it was the latter.

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Dreams were shattered that day. My mother could not bear to hold me too tightly or for too long, fearing that she’d never be able to let me go. My father watched from afar, trying and failing not to notice how much I already resembled his wife. Light olive skin, softly curved jawline hidden beneath impossibly round cheeks. They have these memories, these images buried deep in their hearts, and I know nothing of them—not the way they felt as they held me at a distance, not the sound of their broken voices. There is nothing to remember, but there is everything to imagine.

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Under a starless black sky, before the city had awoken, someone took me to the market where I would be found in a few short hours. I don’t know whether it was my mother or father, but I think it would have been my father. He’d have asked my mother if she wanted to go—to say goodbye—but she would have told him no, claiming to be too fatigued from childbirth to make the trip. It was a feeble attempt to cover the truth: that it wasn’t her body that hurt, but her heart. So my father went alone, holding me closer and tighter than he should have done if he didn’t want this to hurt so badly.

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In those last moments I spent with someone whose blood runs in my veins, I imagine that my father wept. Dark hair hanging in even darker eyes as he kept his head low to hide the tears that blurred his vision. The path was silent, save for the crunch of gravel with every step and the occasional cricket’s call, but there was no peace in this blackness before the sunrise. Hands shaking as he set me down in a crate meant for fresh produce, he blinked hard and tried to hold himself together, but nothing could stifle the tears that fell hot on my skin. It crashed into him like a river bursting free from a dam, this pain that twisted and mangled his heart and kept his hands glued to me for too long. He’d have sooner died than leave me there in the darkness.

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But that’s just what I tell myself.

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Sometimes it’s maddening, knowing that the unknowns of my past will always be unknown, but other times it’s comforting. And maybe a bit strange. I constantly seek the truth from the people and the world around me, but this is the one thing I don’t want to know. When it comes to this, I think it’s safer to imagine what might have been rather than be crushed by the revelation of what actually happened.

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Their love wasn’t enough to keep me with them, but it was enough to give me a better life. I think of them, and there is no overwhelming sadness or unfillable void. I’m always struck by how incredible it is that this life is mine. If my parents had never decided to entrust my life to the care of a stranger they would never meet, I never would have known the freedom that I often take for granted. My education would have been minimal, my opinion dismissed, my voice silenced. I would have been another faceless, nameless woman among billions.

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But that is not what I am.

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People often say that who they are is a result of the relationship they had with their parents; I am the opposite. I don’t carry with me any stories passed down through my biological family. I don’t know if my passion for writing came from either of my parents, or if I’m the first writer in my bloodline. But I do know that the stories I can tell only exist because I never knew them. If they could see me now, immersing myself in books and journals, clinging to the dream of being known for my writing, would they be proud? Would they laugh at the way my brow furrows in concentration because that’s an image of them reflected in me? Would they smile through their tears and rush off to tell their friends that I’m the daughter they had to lose all those years ago?

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I tell myself that they would.