Soft Pink: The color of the societal politeness of adoption. A newborn baby with a blank slate, to shape and mold, and to grow up to look “just like her mother.”

I was a baby girl, described in pink perfection. My demeanor is sweet like strawberry lemonade, skin soft like cotton candy, eyes sparkling like pink champagne. I was delivered to the doorstep by a glorious feathered pink stork, a cute pink bow taped to my head. I grew up to be the girl in a pink cashmere cardigan which prompted her godmother to say, “Pink is her color.”

Blinding White: The color of the promise of hope. The hope my parents had that I would fill the void in a cold, loveless marriage. Hope that I would erase the shame of not being able to have additional children. Hope that I would provide redemption for the disappointment of their first daughter, the “real” (biological) one. I was their do-over daughter, carrying the heavy weight of being perfect in every way.   

Autumn Orange: The color of my father’s fierce protection. It surrounded me with a warm, safe cocoon, a shelter against the storm. In my family, he loved me the most. He died when I was nine, and the devastation of losing him propelled me into unfathomable grief. It wasn’t until I was twelve that I found out I was adopted. I realized that even he, my proud protector, had lied to me.

Sinister Green: The color of my sister’s jealousy. The outrage of being replaced by a girl who wasn’t even their “real” daughter. The emotion that defined our relationship from the minute I appeared at the doorstep. She found someone who needed to pay for this affront, and that someone was me. 

During my teenage years, my sister was long gone with her own family, but she would come to the house and snoop for one more reason to despise me. She needed a fix to constantly fuel her jealousy.  

We had our last confrontation soon after our mother died. I found her at the house, combing through the family treasures left behind. Jewelry passed down through the ages, quilts of our great-grandmother from the 1800’s, family photos, our father’s beloved stamp collection. She explained that it was important to keep those items within the “family.” What was left was strewn across the yard, my sister happily accepting any money that was offered. As I crumpled into the grass, I heard my sister. Why do you always have to be so dramatic?

Glaring Red: The color of my anger. It appeared much later in life. I had carried the lie of pink.