When I was 14, I helped my parents take care of foster kids. Now, I’m child-free by choice.

The author (not pictured) helped her parents take care of foster kids.

When my classmates were dreaming of first kisses at 14, I was warming bottles at 3 a.m. and soothing colicky babies. I was a teenager in my neon green jumpsuit, thrust from foster child to foster mother in the span of a few years.

My parents adopted me when I was 6 years old after fostering me and always kept our home open to four foster children, many with special needs.

When I was a young teenager, my mother’s health began deteriorating, with early signs of Alzheimer’s, while my father’s lung cancer returned. I had to step up and help out.

I took care of a newborn boy

I was at an age when I still needed a mother, but I had to worry about coaxing picky eaters and rocking babies instead of homework. In class, I’d fight to keep my eyes open, textbooks propped against a sleeping infant in my arms.

One little boy came to us as a newborn. For months, I was the one to soothe him and celebrate his first smile, his first steps.

Unlike my friends, who eased into parenthood with nine months of preparation, I was thrust into caregiving with little warning. “Is he yours?” the cashier asked one day, eyeing the baby in my shopping cart. I hesitated before answering, “Yes, he is.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He became my constant companion. We would dance to Benny Goodman records and The Beatles and read “The Little Golden Books” every night until he fell asleep.

The day he left, I dressed him in a tiny gray suit I’d carefully picked out, slightly too big — a silent wish for him to grow into it, to grow into a life full of love and opportunity.

I’d stay up late studying after the little ones were asleep after nights of soothing feverish babies. The children never called me mommy. Instead, they’d call me by my name or adorable mispronunciations of it. I would sometimes be called Lassie or Nestle, each version a reminder of our unique bond.

I’m child-free by choice

I’m not a mother in the traditional sense. I’ve never given birth or adopted, yet for a significant part of my life, I became a mother to dozens of children who needed one, even just for a little while.

Now, decades later, people ask why my home is “empty.” It surprises some people.

My Facebook and Instagram feeds are filled with photos of friends’ children’s milestones. Some have children heading off to college, while others have little ones just starting to walk.

Sometimes, I feel ostracized when forging friendships with other women. There’s pity in their eyes — some judge openly, others more discreetly, thinking I must possess some harsh character defect or that I’m not a good person.

But I’m fulfilled with the richness of my multitude of experiences.

Being child-free has allowed me to produce films, write, travel the world, and pursue several careers. My milestones are different, but they’re mine.

Now, when other women discuss motherhood, they assume I’m one. I’ve had sleepless nights and worried sick over fevers. I’ve felt the joy of first words and first steps, but when they ask about my kids, I stumble.

How do I explain that my children are everywhere? Sometimes, I find myself studying strangers’ faces, wondering if that person could be one of “my” children, all grown up.

I sometimes wonder if I’ve missed out on an integral part of womanhood. I’m acutely aware of what middle-of-the-night bottle feedings feel like, of those precious first smiles. I know the deep joys, but more importantly, I understand the weight of commitment and responsibility it entails.

My house may be empty, but my heart is full of the children who made me whole.