It still hurts to remember the day my first son was born. It was March 24, 1970, a date I'll never forget. When they brought him to me, I was in awe that his father and I had created such a perfect little human.

His hair was barely there, but was blond like his dad's. Blue eyes watched me so seriously. Finally, we were each able to see the other. We had bonded during all those months while he bounced and tumbled within me. When I spoke to him he seemed to listen with great care. There was so much I needed to tell him and so little time.

I opened the blanket and examined him from head to toe. He truly was perfect. The most perfect thing I had ever done. I was so proud to have had a role in creating this baby, of giving him life. The tears started slowly and quietly, they washed down my face and splashed over his blanket.  I held him close to my heart, where he would live forever.

Two days later I went home without my beautiful son. His father and I were not married, you see.   Thus, I was "not fit to raise him."  Another mother would do that.  Someone who had a husband and could give him all the things I could not.  I prayed that she would give him the one thing I could -- unconditional love.  Yes, it still hurts to remember the day my first son was born.