I was today year’s old when I found out that I was adopted as a child. It was a sealed adoption, but eventually my parents found out that – literally – no one knows where I came from. My mother (or father? or random stranger?) left me in a basket outside a church. It was a warm summer night and if anyone knows who left me or where I came from, no one is talking.
“I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, son,” my father says. “Your mother didn’t want you to know.”
I clench my hands in the waiting room, waiting for news from the doctor, because that’s why this came up. I thought – I will donate blood or a kidney or my left lung for her if asked. Just ask.
The doctor walks down the hall, clipboard in hand. “She’ll be fine,” he tells us. “They’re just finishing up and then you can go and see. We think it was a panic attack. No sign of heart attack. She’ll be fine.”
“Thank God,” I say looking at my father, (and he is my real father, no matter where my DNA came from.) “She’s going to be okay. Mom is going to be okay.”
I didn’t have a very good relationship with my mom, so this story is for all the people who have stepped into that role over the years, and for all those real “moms” of whatever gender that are really there for all kids, of all ages.