If I had a dollar for every time someone gazed at my son, who I adopted from overseas, and said that he’s so fortunate, I’d be living in luxury. I could easily buy a sleek sports car, a lavish boat, and a sprawling estate under the name of my company, MyFortunateKid, LLC. Unfortunately, those dollars never come my way. My son and I hear comments about how fortunate he is everywhere we go, and I can’t help but feel uneasy about it.
Despite the warm intentions and cheerful smiles that accompany those words, “he’s so fortunate” leaves me feeling awkward and out of sorts. I often find myself stumbling through a response that would make anyone doubt my fluency in English. For a long time, I couldn’t quite pinpoint why this phrase unsettled me so deeply.
It’s certainly not because it’s false. My son spent time in a foreign orphanage, where he faced abandonment, hunger, and fear. The vibrant child I now have, who dances joyfully in his pajamas, is a testament to the drastic improvements in his life. While I understand the sentiment behind the “he’s so fortunate” comments, I think it misses the mark.
Is my discomfort rooted in the fact that I feel incredibly lucky? Maybe that’s part of it. The unwritten rules of adoptive parenting suggest that I should agree and say, “He is so fortunate!” but time and again, I find myself insisting, “Oh no, I’m the lucky one!” I genuinely believe this. However, my own feelings of gratitude aren’t the root of my unease about labeling my son as fortunate.
The phrase “he’s so fortunate” is jarring because, while adoption is a significant part of my son’s background, it’s not a factor in our everyday lives. Whether we’re at the grocery store, a school event, or just hanging out, he’s simply my son—no qualifiers needed.
Picture me at the grocery store, for instance. I’m trying to fill a bag with bulk oats while keeping an eye on my son, who just asked a stranger if they were expecting. As I juggle my ringing phone and a stubborn bag, a voice nearby pipes up, “Aw! He’s so fortunate!” I pause, confused. Who is considered fortunate here? My child? Did he score a free snack? Ah, right—he’s adopted.
The phrase “he’s so fortunate” pulls adoption into my life in a way that feels intrusive, even seven years after it began. On a day-to-day basis, I don’t see his past—I see a happy child playing air guitar or sneaking soda into our shopping cart.
I don’t want my son to feel like he’s lucky or that he owes me anything. He doesn’t. I want him to know he is loved, that our family is just as real as any other, and that he has so much more to offer the world than mere luck. The most beautiful aspect of adoption is that I, his mother, recognize its significance every day, yet it doesn’t define our reality.
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In summary, while the sentiment behind “he’s so fortunate” is well-meaning, it simplifies a complex reality. Adoption is a part of our story, but it doesn’t define our daily lives. My son is simply my son, loved and cherished for who he is, not for the luck he supposedly embodies.
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