My first zit … my first bra … my first kiss

My birth mom missed them all. She should have been there to tell me it was fine, to reassure me and hold my hand when I got scared. Instead, now I’ll never get the chance to meet her because my dad’s moving us two thousand miles away—to California.

But she needs to know what’s happening. She has to understand what’s going on in my life, what’s important to me and why I act like I do from time to time.

That’s why I started this diary. It’s a collection of my thoughts, wishes, fears and desires. Hundreds of them, from the past 11 years, all committed to paper and meant for the eyes of just one person. My mom…