Separated @ Birth: A True Love Story of Twin Sisters Reunited by Anais Bordier, Samantha Futerman
Authors: Anais Bordier, Samantha Futerman
Ads: Link
unsuccessful. They immediately turned to adoption, as they decided not to go through infertility treatments, my mum knowing she would be just as happy with an adopted child, and wanting a family more than anything. She and my father decided they wanted a child from Korea, and Korea only. My mother said it was in her heart. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt very, very strongly about it. My father felt the same way. He even started to teach himself Korean in anticipation.
My parents didn’t realize that being this particular about a country was going to be problematic. In France, there is a specific process for adoption. First, social services needs to agree that the applicants are suitable to be parents of an adopted child. When they are approved, a couple must decide if they want to adopt domestically or internationally. My parents chose to go through a specific association, Amis des Enfants du Monde (AEM), Friends of the Children of the World. When my parents said they were only interested in a baby from Korea, the agency was upset, saying a child is a child wherever he or she is from.
My mother was not dissuaded. She told the representative if the application didn’t go to Korea, she and my father would find another adoption agency that would accommodate them, so Korea or nothing. It was very important to her that she feel a connection with her child’s birth country, and for no explainable reason, her connection was with Korea.
My mum had put a lot of thought into her decision. She was making a choice not just for the baby in infancy, but for that child’s entire lifetime. In her opinion, parents adopting internationally hadn’t always prepared themselves for the added hardship involved in raising a child from another country here in France.
In slightly less than two years, my parents got their authorization. Just before Christmas in 1987, my parents got word from AEM that their baby girl had been born, weighing in at 2.2 kilos (about four pounds, thirteen ounces), and measuring forty-four centimeters long (about seventeen inches). The first physical exam report said I was “cute and tiny,” although I wouldn’t be arriving in France for six months. Their first photo of me was sent to them when I was four days old, newly transferred from the private clinic in Busan to the HoltInstitute in Seoul, the adoption agency in Korea that worked with AEM in France. A few days later, my parents got a second, more official photo of me, with a matriculation number, and my Korean name, Kim Eun Hwa. In Korean, Eun means “silver,” and Hwa means “flower.”
A few weeks later, the agency sent a picture that showed a sizable strawberry-colored vascular birthmark on my head. These unsightly growths, called hemangiomas, are fairly common on newborns and are usually cosmetic. My mum, wanting to make sure it wasn’t something of great concern, took my photo to my future pediatrician, and he reassured her that it would disappear completely by the time I was nine years old.
Now, it was time to pick a name. There were a lot of little girls named Anaïs in the South of France, where they spent a lot of time, and the name worked for them for very special reasons. For one, “Anaïs” was popular in the South of France, and I was from the southern part of Korea. For another, “Anaïs” was a near homonym to “Hanae” (pronounced Hana-e), the word for “flower” in Japanese. That would complement the fact that my Korean name used “flower.” Yes, “Anaïs” had a lot of meaningful interpretations that made it the perfect choice.
The initial information given to my parents by the agency in Seoul was that I would be arriving sometime in May, six months after my birth. Therefore, my mother felt no need to rush to furnish my nursery and stock my drawers. Suddenly, on the last Monday in February, a woman called and said I would be arriving on a flight that very Saturday. My mother was in a panic, as she hadn’t prepared my
My parents didn’t realize that being this particular about a country was going to be problematic. In France, there is a specific process for adoption. First, social services needs to agree that the applicants are suitable to be parents of an adopted child. When they are approved, a couple must decide if they want to adopt domestically or internationally. My parents chose to go through a specific association, Amis des Enfants du Monde (AEM), Friends of the Children of the World. When my parents said they were only interested in a baby from Korea, the agency was upset, saying a child is a child wherever he or she is from.
My mother was not dissuaded. She told the representative if the application didn’t go to Korea, she and my father would find another adoption agency that would accommodate them, so Korea or nothing. It was very important to her that she feel a connection with her child’s birth country, and for no explainable reason, her connection was with Korea.
My mum had put a lot of thought into her decision. She was making a choice not just for the baby in infancy, but for that child’s entire lifetime. In her opinion, parents adopting internationally hadn’t always prepared themselves for the added hardship involved in raising a child from another country here in France.
In slightly less than two years, my parents got their authorization. Just before Christmas in 1987, my parents got word from AEM that their baby girl had been born, weighing in at 2.2 kilos (about four pounds, thirteen ounces), and measuring forty-four centimeters long (about seventeen inches). The first physical exam report said I was “cute and tiny,” although I wouldn’t be arriving in France for six months. Their first photo of me was sent to them when I was four days old, newly transferred from the private clinic in Busan to the HoltInstitute in Seoul, the adoption agency in Korea that worked with AEM in France. A few days later, my parents got a second, more official photo of me, with a matriculation number, and my Korean name, Kim Eun Hwa. In Korean, Eun means “silver,” and Hwa means “flower.”
A few weeks later, the agency sent a picture that showed a sizable strawberry-colored vascular birthmark on my head. These unsightly growths, called hemangiomas, are fairly common on newborns and are usually cosmetic. My mum, wanting to make sure it wasn’t something of great concern, took my photo to my future pediatrician, and he reassured her that it would disappear completely by the time I was nine years old.
Now, it was time to pick a name. There were a lot of little girls named Anaïs in the South of France, where they spent a lot of time, and the name worked for them for very special reasons. For one, “Anaïs” was popular in the South of France, and I was from the southern part of Korea. For another, “Anaïs” was a near homonym to “Hanae” (pronounced Hana-e), the word for “flower” in Japanese. That would complement the fact that my Korean name used “flower.” Yes, “Anaïs” had a lot of meaningful interpretations that made it the perfect choice.
The initial information given to my parents by the agency in Seoul was that I would be arriving sometime in May, six months after my birth. Therefore, my mother felt no need to rush to furnish my nursery and stock my drawers. Suddenly, on the last Monday in February, a woman called and said I would be arriving on a flight that very Saturday. My mother was in a panic, as she hadn’t prepared my
Similar Books
