This was written one night after a person challenged why I was searching for my birth family at the age of thirty-two having never been raised by them.
So this is what I know. I was given away when I was born. That’s the cold hard truth. Call it relinquished if you’d rather, but the facts remain.
Maybe I was wanted and loved, maybe I was resented and a terrible burden. Maybe I brought joy to somebody’s life for the five minutes that she held me and still cherishes that memory to this day. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I was born on time. Maybe I was early. Maybe I was an easy delivery. Maybe I wasn’t.
Maybe I look just like my father. Maybe a little brother out there is a computer enthusiast, too. Maybe my mother is tall like I am. Maybe I’m German or Irish or Danish. Maybe I would have grown up in New Jersey or Florida. Maybe my father likes to sing. Maybe a little sister that I’ve never met is afraid of heights and thunderstorms. Maybe my father loves scary movies and maybe my mother cries when she feels overwhelmed.
Maybe I was taken from my mother against her will and she never recovered. Maybe she was talked out of having an abortion and has regretted her decision ever since.
Maybe my mother and father are married. Maybe they only met once. Maybe I broke them up. Maybe they miss me. Maybe they don’t.
Maybe I have brothers and sisters. Maybe I have an uncle who shares my dry sense of humor. Maybe I have an aunt who loves to cook as much as I do. Maybe my mother loves to read her Bible. Maybe my father is generous to a fault. Maybe someone else in my family is a writer. Maybe my sister is oversensitive. Maybe my brother is stubborn.
Maybe I’m a dirty little secret that no one would even dare speak of. Maybe my mother has been desperately searching for me for years.
Maybe my mother has long thick hair. Maybe my sister is diabetic. Maybe my brother loves Mexican food. Maybe my father dreams of going someplace tropical and maybe he’s already been. Maybe my mother likes to read. Maybe my father likes to sit alone outside and look at the stars
Maybe my mother died in childbirth. Maybe she’s in perfect health today. Maybe she doesn’t know who my father is–and maybe he died 5 years ago.
Maybe I would love them at first sight. Maybe we’d bond immediately. Maybe I’d rub my brother the wrong way. Maybe my sister and I would be the best of friends. Maybe my mother would break down and cry tears of joy. Maybe she would reject me all over again. Or maybe, I would reject them.
Maybe I’m nothing like any of them. Maybe we’re just alike. Maybe I’ll never know.
Maybe I should just be content with knowing things worked out as best they could. Maybe I shouldn’t care about my past. Maybe I could stop caring if I knew anything at all about it.
So there it is: a whole lot of maybes and one cold truth. Maybe I’ll find out the answers someday. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll be happy with what I find. Maybe I won’t.
Either way, I’ll have the answers to the questions that so many people take for granted every single day. I’m not wrong for asking and I have the right to search until I find them. And THAT is what I know.