Mother’s Day is a triggering day on the calendar for many people. For those of us impacted by adoption, it can be ten times that on the Richter scale. As an adoptee who has sought more information about my first mother, I’ve now compiled a cluster of anniversaries that begin in late April and last until mid-May.
I was born April 21, 1965, and formally relinquished on April 30, just ten days later. After signing the papers in court that morning in Spokane, Washington, my understanding is my mother boarded a train that night headed back to the only home she had in North Dakota. I’ve often envisioned my bereft young mother running away from that terrible scene as fast as she could.
My adoptive mother died on May 6th, 2017, and my adoptive father on May 15th, 2004. I was the only child of my raising parents, and I believe also from my first mother. I can be grateful for my loving family and still be curious about where I come from. These two wishes can, or at least should, be able to peacefully coexist. Living as an adopted person is inherently paradoxical.
***
In my late fifties with my parents gone, I’ve reached out to my first mother. I’d like to see her, know her if she will let me. Or at least, understand more of my heritage, parentage, and birth right.
Born as I was in Washington State, it is one of only fourteen that allows adopted adults to have access to their original birth certificates. This is how we find her. From what I can see, she married later in life and has no other children. My birth father is unnamed. Even with DNA testing there is no clear path to learn who he might be. It is still a mystery, and she is the only one who can unlock that information.
I’ve sought advice, therapy, and talked with other birth mothers. Two years ago, I made my first attempt to reach her. I sent a carefully worded letter. Full of grace, love and understanding. I told her that whatever happened she had done her best. That good people had raised me, and I’d had a good life. That I loved her no matter what, never resented her, and would always hold space for her in my heart. I opened the door if she wanted to communicate in any way and included a few photos.
No response.
The wondering never ends. Did she receive my letter? Tracking says that yes, someone at the home did. Maybe they travel and are gone a lot? Maybe her husband is controlling or cruel and hid my letter from her. What if she has dementia? What if something else happened to her and she is ashamed for me to see her? These useless but never-ending thoughts whirl. I want to hope for the best but prepare for the worst. What if she really doesn’t care and never did? My conversations with other mothers who have relinquished children to adoption say otherwise. But really, what if the blessing is that she did not raise me?
I cling tightly to the only photo I have of her – the black and white senior yearbook picture that mirrors me so closely I can barely stand it. She is frozen in time at that moment and only she can come to me and breathe her essence into the scene in my head. Without that I know this is only one piece of her story.
***
Two years have gone by, and there is a conference I’m attending in the same city she lives in. So again, with much thought and care I write to let her know I am coming and when. I say I will meet her anywhere, that I understand her husband may not know her past. Three more weeks pass by with no reply, and I head to the event.
***
One day after leaving, a letter from her arrives at my home. She says she loves me, does not wish to hurt or reject me, but she does not want to meet. Her family around her do not know and while she says she loves me, she asks that I respect her wishes.
I was devastated and so was my husband back at home having to share this letter from afar. I also knew I needed to protect my heart, be kind to the wounded little child inside of me. And, to know I would be Okay. I never needed her affirmation and see clearly this has only to do with her grief, shame, and limitations. Not my baggage to carry.
This is adoption’s greatest toll – to have people unable to reach across the divide created by stigma, fear, and guilt. I’ve spoken to many adoptees and their first mothers who have reunited. These wounds caused by their separation are never fully healed, even by coming together again.
***
Two days later, a friend in tow, we drive to the address I have for my mother. We had planned this day for weeks in advance, well ahead of her letter waving me off. But we’re here, so why not go and at least see where she lives. It’s a lovely townhome in a nice suburb. I’m glad to see her stable and doing well for herself in her later years.
The house appears to be buttoned up tight, shades drawn, no sign of anyone home. A few doors down, my comrade in the lead, we find a nice elderly lady who chats and lets us know why yes, she knows my mother and her husband. Time-shares she says. We ask a few questions, and she tells us they booked a last-minute trip to Washington – left a few days ago and coming back later next week.
She ran away. While unknowable for certain, it is the most probable explanation. It is the one that feels true. Just like that night on the train fifty-nine years ago. Unable to face my presence or explain her true past she could not risk exposure. She has hidden my existence from her husband for decades.
Her secret will remain safe, and I will push her no further.
***
I head home to my life and plan to move forward as I always do. I speak with my good friends and know I did everything right. I was respectful. I will honor her wishes and set this aside for now. It just didn’t work out. There was no luck in the stars this time. However, other forces have worked against us.
Adoption is a lie. We believe we are saving one family from the judgement and immoral indignities of an unplanned-for child. That a more deserving and financially sound family will better provide for the baby. We also believe we are taking greater care of society by creating a superior family. But the aftermath is one of destruction.
As I try to see this all with a clear lens there are no answers. She cannot undo what was done to her, and right now may still be shielding herself from the pain of those realizations. What was clear in the non-identifying information from the Salvation Army (they so graciously allowed me to have) is that she was in love with my father and wanted to marry him and keep me.
She has tamped down that pain so far into her inner self she cannot face it. And while the situation of what she endured was horrendous, it was also not my fault.
***
Two more dates have been added to the calendar now in this landmine of a season. Spring is supposed to be the time of renewal and growth. I wish my mother would grow forth to know that there truly is love awaiting her on the other side of the abyss.
Her letter was mailed on April 23rd, two days after my birth. Surely, even with her shaky penmanship, she noted the timing? It arrives at my home on Friday the 26th. And I knock on the door of an empty house on April 29th, the day before she released me to God and the powers swirling around her all those decades ago. Demanding she relinquish me.
This isn’t over. She may still find her way. But only she can claim what is also still her right – to show up for Mother’s Day. To allow herself to own that title. And I’ll be here with an open door if she does.
** This story initially appeared in CUB Communicator in the May, 2024 Spring Edition.
