She squatted, spreading her knees wide and inspecting the leaves of the plants as she sprayed their roots. At the same time, I pulled my shaft from my...boxers and started rubbing it where she could see through the window as I watched her. Sweat clarified her tank top and the fabric clung transparent to her stomach and waist. Her transparent undershirt and alabaster skin highlighted the lace ruffles of her black bra as well as the curves of her body. Finally she knelt in front of a rose bush. We all had parents who had raised us, and who we loved, and who were our "actual" parents, and our memories of "home" were associated with the people we thought of as our parents. But when you're adopted, you can't help but wonder about what life might have been like... the other way.What made it eerie were the similarities in our respective stories.I had been six when my birth mother - I didn't remember anything at all about my birth father - had gone away. I knew, later, that she had died,. More

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