Several year’s ago, my husband I were invited to another family’s house for dinner. The wife was a good friend of mine and she’d just had a baby. The pregnancy had been a real struggle for her and it was doubtful that she would be able to have anymore. I’m sure this bothered her a great deal, but she wasn’t the type to complain too much. She’s a good natured person, optimistic and gracious; someone who reminds you of how wonderful life is even when things seem to be going all wrong.
We went into her bedroom to change her daughter’s diaper. Conversation turned to the subject of my adoption and how I wanted to ask my dad about Vietnam and his time there. This discussion continued out into the dining room where our husbands sat talking. We all sat down at the table to have coffee where her and I continued talking. At some point she said she wouldn’t mind adopting to which her husband answered, “In Islam it’s not good to adopt.”
“Why’s that,” I asked with my eyebrow already half-cocked.
“Well you don’t know who the parents are,” he answered rather confidently. “What if they’re bastards?” continued..