"Why does doing the right thing feel so wrong?" I ask my mother five years from the day I relinquished my first-born son.

She sighs, always hesitant to discuss the adoptions in our family. I must give her credit; however, she's gotten better at saying the words. "I don't know Courtney, I just don't know."

My past is reminiscent evidence of loss and my inner struggle to regain hope: hope in my decisions, in their outcomes, and ultimately in the purpose of it all. I read, "There are but two things in life that are real, everything else is an illusion, and those two things are fear and love. To experience love, from it's origin, God, in ourselves and in others, is the meaning of life." Marriane Williamson, "Return to Love".

On the day I walked away from my son, as he lay in the arms of two strangers, was I choosing fear or was I choosing love? For the choice left me great agony of which I foresee no closure, only survival, and as far as what it's left him with ... I simply do not know.

On the day I walked out of the hospital with my infant daughter, home to a room someone had volunteered to allow me to stay in, with nothing to my name and no idea how I would even feed my second born child, was I choosing love or fear? This choice has left me nothing but love, joy, and triumph as I beat the odds of single parenting and watched my precious child grow into a phenomenal little girl.

Did I do the right thing? Is the right thing based on the current situation or is the right thing always the right thing, regardless? From, "The Power of One," the man who began the Apartheid debates with a young English boy who asks, "But is it justice for all, or justice for some?" The man replies, "Justice is defined by who delegates it." What justice had I delegated and what justice had I received? What justifications did I still make in order to perceive my choices as correct and right?

Painfully I recount the days leading up to relinquishing my son. The bitter agony, the extreme emptiness, and the gut wrenching heart sickness that stole over me and festered for years to come. I recount the years of separation, the not knowing, the painful wondering of simple things such as what he looks like or what subjects he struggles with in school. The years he grows without any knowledge of me. I fall prey now to wonder of what's to come, if I will ever get to see him again, if I will ever want to know me. The trauma of reunion, the emotions that have been buried under the heart sores, scabbed over with time. And I think to myself ... did I do the right thing?

Did I choose love or did I choose fear? I've been marked a betrayer by some, a young woman who carelessly and thoughtlessly gave up her child. I've been marked by some as a hero, a young woman strong enough to know what was best. Others have marked me as someone too weak to make an effort and yet smart enough to recognize it.

"When we act in love isn't it true that love is returned to us? That our actions, when selfless and giving, in turn bless us?" I ask my mother, as our coffee gets cold.

Again, she sighs, "It's usually true, yes. When we give of ourselves we automatically feel happier about who we are, and sometimes that's the blessing."

I realize ... I haven't the opportunity to give of myself to my child. I haven't been able to reap a return of the love that exists in my heart. As I parent my daughter I am given every day a new opportunity to give to her, to nurture and bless her and do things for her. These things in turn fill my heart.

I made a sacrifice because I believed it was the right thing to do. I hope that in doing it I was choosing love and not fear.

Yet, I may never know. May the evidence of my son's life one day justify my decision so that I might have peace. If not, may I have the strength and the courage to accept the causes, and the wisdom to change the effect.

Doing the right thing should feel good. Even if there are no present, physical rewards. Justice changes as quickly as the situation at hand and is based on who is in charge. To justify myself by the right choices I make will only send me into a tailspin of judgment and doubt. So instead ... I choose, simply, to accept what was, to embrace what is, and to hope for that to come.

"This coffee is terrible," I whisper, taking another sip.

My mother's hand gently rests over my own, "I miss what might have been Courtney; I just want you to know that."

"Me too mom, me too."

Credits: Courtney Frey