I have always questioned life, my existence, and why I'm here.

Perhaps because I never knew my biological father... that I was a 60s baby... that my mother's decision to keep me was not her first thought and that, somehow, I withstood the unimaginable and held on.

Despite it all, I was born.

Or perhaps because in one split second, one fleeting conversation with a complete stranger, my mother quietly stopped listening to the rhetoric of her day. Suddenly, she just knew. That she was strong enough, capable enough, and that keeping me was an option.

Despite it all, she chose not to let me go. She chose to take me home.

I will always marvel at the strength of my mother. It is why I'm here... is why I question... and is why I believe there is a reason for my existence.