I walk across the brown hallway. The yellowish dim lights of the orphanage cast shades as I make my way through the door. On my hip, my new daughter rests awkwardly, we haven’t figured out how we fit together yet. I break out of the building, scared. I know Nina is too. We don’t know how this will go – being mother and child – becoming family. We are strangers. The translator grabs the camera to record our special moment, our “gotcha day.” This is the last time Nina will be in an orphanage.

So many lasts left behind. I never liked the place. Brown, dark, and institutionalized. Every time I visited I felt as if I had to hold my breath under water for a long time. It is not that it is a bad place. It is simply heartbreaking to see the orphans, to hear them. It is difficult to listen to them call me “mama!” only to be told, “That’s not your mama, that’s Nina’s mama.”  But today I have hope for a child, because it is the last time Nina has to wonder if a mama will ever come and get her.

Nina and I settle down in our little black and white checkered apartment. I take her out, because at the orphanage she never had the chance to walk outside and explore her surroundings. I want her to experience the world. And honestly, I have no idea of what to do with her, so we walk.

They glower at me. They whisper. Some spit their disapproving words. Although I do not understand their language, I know why they criticized me. Strapped to me with a long piece of frayed white cloth, my almost four-year-old daughter hangs awkwardly on my body. She seems too old to be carried, and my “baby wearing” is a ridiculous sight.

As we walk the streets of Kiev, browsing the stores, waiting for the adoption documents to be completed, I welcome these gestures from strangers in the city. They do not know my makeshift “sling” is a banner of hope. The promise of a future. I am giving my daughter the little I can give her at the time. I am giving her my legs.

Really, their response seems inconsequential when confronted with my daughter’s responses as she experiences the world for the first time. Her squeals of “machina” as cars drive by, the towering buildings that mesmerize her into a trance, or the pleasure of choosing a candy bar at a store.

For almost four years, Nina lived in one room. A room where she slept, ate and played. Her life consisted of four walls. Even within those walls, she was confined due to her mobility. And while other children might have been taken outside to play occasionally, she was left behind.

But no more, that was the last time. Today, today it is a new day. Today is the day for firsts.