How I Finally Met My Mother
An ocean beside us. An ocean between us.
My biological mother and I left footprints in the same sand but were lost to each other. The riptide of the closed adoption system forever pulled us apart, even on our shared shore.
Born in Chicago and relinquished at birth, I was adopted at five weeks. I’m careful to tell the story in that order now. Adoption stems from loss. This is the part society doesn’t like to talk about and prefers instead to start with the happy homecoming of adoption. I no longer discount that loss. Loss was with me from my first breath and was a constant, if often quiet, companion.
To be chosen, one must first be unchosen, surrendered.
Chosen is the wrong verb anyway. They were next in line, as was I. Random chance dropped me into a loving family, but it was just that, a stroke of luck. I was fortunate to have a “good adoption.” I’m told I screamed bloody murder on that first day but quickly acclimated. I loved my new family and clung for dear life to them. My paper parents and siblings felt real to me, though I never quite felt real to myself. Had I even been born, or did I just materialize? Where was that woman that brought me into the world?
I grew up knowing next to nothing about her. My adoptive parents were given only scribbled statistics from the adoption agency: sixteen, black hair, brown eyes. No name, ethnicity, or medical history. She was but a concept to me, and I couldn’t risk thinking otherwise. I assumed she didn’t want me. I was sure she’d forgotten all about me. I tried to do the same, but the thought of her haunted me.
After college, I couldn’t seem to settle. I spent the next decade floating around New York City, Las Vegas, Atlanta, and a string of elsewheres. Finally, in 2002, I settled in Venice Beach. I moved two blocks away from her, though, of course, I didn’t know it. Nor did she. We never met.
When you have no backstory, the stories you tell yourself take over. I didn’t know I was an unreliable narrator. I believed everything I told myself.
In truth, she had never forgotten me. She looked for me, even hired a private
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