In November, when Robert Irwin won “Dancing with the Stars,” he said “Every step that I wish my dad was there, my mom was there. And it was enough.”

While I didn’t experience the loss Irwin did, I understand what it means to grow up with a single mother. 

But I never saw my childhood as different or lacking. If anything, I only noticed it when talking to friends. I would ask about their families and subconsciously focus on their mothers. When they responded with “My parents are doctors” or “My dad works at a bank,” I would pause, briefly reminded that my family didn’t fit that structure. 

I grew used to the questions: Why don’t you have a father? Why don’t you call your sister’s father your own? 

Eventually, I developed a script. 

We don’t look alike because I’m adopted. A few years after my mother’s divorce, she wanted my sister to have a sibling. No, I don’t wish I had a father. 

Over time, I stopped explaining as much. Not because I didn’t have answers, but because I didn’t feel like anything needed to be justified. 

Everyone assumes life is better with two parents and that “more” automatically means better: more support, more stability and more love. 

But that assumption never matched my reality. 

My mother works a demanding job. When the new district attorney came into office when I was in middle school, her schedule became even more unpredictable. There were stretches of time when I rarely saw her, when early mornings turned into late nights and her work followed her home into our living room.

But even then, I never questioned her presence in my life, because it showed up in other ways. 

It showed up in the opportunities she made possible. She sent me to one of the best schools in Philadelphia, making sure I had access to an education she believed in, even if it required extra sacrifice. 

It showed up in the way she listened. When I told her I wanted to pursue journalism — after changing my mind about what I wanted to do after graduation — she didn’t question it or try to redirect me. She supported me immediately, trusting that I’d found my passion. 

And it showed up in moments that might seem small, but aren’t. 

This past weekend, I drove home to see my mother and sister. We sat together eating breakfast, watching the episode of “Friends” where Monica and Chandler get the call that they were chosen to adopt a baby — on Thanksgiving.

I turned to ask my mother a question, but she quickly shushed me, telling me to wait until the episode ended. 

When it did, I understood why. 

I was brought home from Guatemala on Thanksgiving — what my family refers to as my “gotcha day.” 

When I asked my question about my adoption again, she quietly said the episode made her tear up.

I’ve always known the basics of my adoption, but it was never something I felt the need to explore deeply. I don’t wonder about my biological parents or siblings. I’ve never felt like anything was missing. 

I have my family. 

She told me she wanted my sister to have a little sister. At the time, adopting a girl was more difficult and she waited two years to hear back from the agency. 

On March 26, 2004, they called her.

And she was so excited — not knowing what life would look like, but knowing what she wanted was coming true: having a family. 

Growing up, I never felt like I had less. I had one parent, but I never had half the love.

If anything, I had more — more intention, more sacrifice, more certainty.

Every step where something could’ve been missing, she was there. And it was enough.