I felt panicked when my wife and I decided to adopt a child. I expected joy and excitement, but I had to face a series of “what if’s”.

What if the child isn’t anything like me? It’s natural for parents to look for their reflection in their children and live their lives indirectly through their children’ success. But I knew it might be a good thing not to place my ego (自我) on the child, who doesn’t share my genes.

But what if I don’t love this child? How could I just decide to love a stranger? But as we got physical examinations, did interviews, filled out forms, and talked to lawyers, he didn’t seem like a stranger when I first met him three days after his birth. With one arm gently holding his whole body, I looked into his eyes and knew that my heart belonged to him.

But what if he later asks about who he is and why he is adopted? This was not a “what if” I could completely work through in advance. But since our adoption was open and we had met his birth parents, I decided to keep a written record of the whole adopting process, including the joy and love he has brought to us. If he is full of questions and confusion when he is sixteen, I hope to hand him this record.

Of course, other “what if’s” that threatened to decrease our love and courage may come. But all of them can be answered or overcome. And we did adopt this child whom I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. And this new world of fatherhood has become my heart’s true home.

My family was driving across Canada to Montreal. My husband Ray had got a head start with our daughter in a truck filled with many things. I took my four­year­old son John in our family car. We crossed into Ontario, driving along a narrow road. A heavy rain fell. Suddenly, a truck changed into our lane. I turned the wheel sharply. We went off the road. “We’re going to die,”   I thought as the car rolled into a deep ditch(沟).

Coming to my senses, I heard a man’s voice from somewhere outside my     car, saying, “There’s nobody alive in there.” Everything was hard to see; pieces of glass covered me from head to toe. The metal frame (框架) of our car pressed tight against my back. I could barely breathe. John! I was scared and reached behind me.

“Are you all right, honey？” I asked.“Yes, Mama,” John replied in a shaking voice. I looked toward the window. “We’re alive.Please help us！”I cried. A man reached through the window and pulled John out. A few others pulled the metal frame away enough for me to go out. Except for some small cuts, we were okay.

A kind policeman took us to the hospital. Four days later, we went back to the place of the accident. The insurance agent with us was amazed when he saw the destroyed car. So was I.

Our eyes turned toward the back seat. The roof, which was supported by an amazing brace(支架), had stayed up just enough so we weren’t crushed(压碎). Piled from the floor to the ceiling were the books that hadn’t fitted into our truck.

When I was first married to my wife, I lived and worked in Ontario, moving from small town to big city as I pursued my career as a radio broadcaster. We have two sons, both of whom were born in Toronto, but they moved, with us, to Ottawa when they were quite young. They grew up there, and then, chasing their own careers, they also moved. One went to Canada's east coast near a city called Halifax and the other headed to the west coast to Vancouver. We had a dilemma; we were left in the middle.

At the time I was still working and my job was in Ottawa. However, as we began to consider retirement we wondered where we should spend our final years. We couldn't be close to both of our children and there was no telling when they might again relocate. For several reasons we settled on a small town on Vancouver Island. At least we were close to one of them. However, he had his sights set on Hollywood and, when an opportunity presented itself, he left Canada and headed south. I helped him move.

So, there we were, and still are, in our little west coast town. We love our little corner of paradise but we have paid a price. We have not been there for some important events such as the births of two of our grandchildren. We have missed watching each of them grow up; we have missed the normal, noisy households that have young people in them. Our home, while very comfortable, is also very quiet.

Every fall we travel to see the children. We usually fly, first to California to see our son Scott and spend a week or more with him trying to catch up on everything we've missed. Then, usually in November, we make the even longer trip east across Canada to see Travis and our grandchildren, who are now teenagers, actually into their twenties. They seldom come to visit us. The distances are just too great and it is costly.

Fortunately, both our boys are doing well and our grandchildren are growing up straight and tall. We love all of them and we are secure in the knowledge that they love us but the reality is that they don't need us. We have done our jobs and, at least in theory, we can sit back, relax and enjoy the time remaining to us. They have also missed having a set of parents and grandparents around.

Life has been good for our family but we have all paid a price.