Rummaging through my mother’s items in her closet was one of my favorite pastimes as a child. Trying on her costly dresses that she only wore on special occasions and pairing them with her suede heels which were four sizes too big for me, and looking in her chest of pearls and diamonds that I would never touch because I would fear moving them out of there usual placement.
While exploring through her closet one day on the very top shelf hidden under some loose childhood photo albums, was a small shoebox that paralyzed my thoughts.
I swore to myself when I was young that if I ever found out who my biological parents were, I would not care. I knew who I was and I knew who my parents were, therefore, I never had the urge to search for them. However, sitting on my mother’s closet floor staring at a small shoebox that contained piles of information about my genetic history, I couldn’t help myself but care.
I became an investigator and searched up all the different possible names and birth records that were associated in that box until I finally found her.
Her fierce red hair framed her delicate features with freckles covering her face and a bright smile was present on every photo I scrolled through as I compared my appearance to hers. The more I looked through her photos the more curious I became about my genetic background.
I contemplated what to do with the information I had found for a long time and for the first time in my life, despite how close I have always felt to my adopted mother, I was scared to tell her what I had been doing.
I took the information to my older biological brother Christopher who was shocked I had found the distant family we had only ever heard brief stories about.
My parents were always very transparent with my brother Christopher and I about our three other siblings who we all shared the same biological mother and different fathers, however, seeing them all for the first time still came as a shock.
Together, we decided to leave it alone and not bring it up to our parents or try to contact them. We did not want to intrude on their family and we weren’t ready to speak to them.
Three years later I had turned 18 and waiting for me one day after school, was a letter addressed to my brother and myself from our biological mother.
Our adoptive mother was more surprised than either of us; she was clueless to the fact that we already knew so much information and the letter became a reality for her that our relationship with our biological mother would not be through photos sent every year but something more concrete.
Christopher and I both began to start separate relationships with our biological mother and siblings. In comparison to how he reacted the first time I brought this information to his attention, I was surprised that t my brother was more willing to connect with our distant family and began to develop a close bond with our biological mother. I didn’t understand why and he couldn’t explain to me his reasoning.
Growing up, the stories told by our adoptive parents shed a negative light on our biological mother and the underlying layer of resentment was still there for me.
Like most people who are adopted my first question was why? Why were my brother and I given up while she kept the other three? Given that one year separates all five kids, was there something wrong with just the two of us?
The letter sent explained during the time of her pregnancies, partying, drugs and bad habits were part of her lifestyle and as a result from that life, she did a lot of things she regretted and had to live with including giving us up.
My adoptive parents were fortunate to have one biological daughter but always wanted a bigger family. They considered adopting a child overseas from Russia but an opportunity came to adopt locally through Catholic Charities.
My parents were approached with the idea of adopting our younger brother after hearing our biological mother had become pregnant again a year later after me, however, job opportunities for my father in the Middle East resulted in them being unable to care for another child and our biological mother decided to keep our last sibling.
I often wonder what his life would have turned out to be had my parents been able to adopt him, and if his misfortunes in life would have existed if he would have grown up with us.
Throughout the years, I have grown closest to my younger biological brother because I feel guilty that he was one decision away from getting the same opportunities in life that me and Christopher were blessed with.
It took me months to be comfortable enough to ask my biological mother information about who my father is and was met with information that further pushed me away from her.
During my process of being adoptive, the man who signed off on my adoption papers was my other older sibling’s father.
My biological father during the time was not cooperative and would not take ownership of the pregnancy. One man who she believed may possibly be my biological father made attempts to get DNA tests but I have never felt comfortable enough to go through with it.
Being adopted into this family was something I have always been proud of, something I loved sharing with my friends growing up despite their timid questions.
Adoption has shaped every part of me and my personality and I am grateful for the opportunities I have been given; however, being adopted has become one of the hardest things I have had to come to terms with as I have grown up. It has brought new questions to my mind about myself and my background that sometimes I am not yet ready to face, but curiosity I want to follow throughout my years to come.