The mother that gave birth to me I know a little about. She was unmarried to my father when I was conceived and born, she moved to the other side of the country to have me and gave me to a man and a woman who wanted children, but couldn’t have any of their own. She lived there awhile and then returned to her home, her family and eventually (I’ve been told) married my birth father. She was 34 years old when I was born; I don’t know if she had other pregnancies or children. I know she is Italian in heritage; born in the United States and has lived for most of her life on the east coast. I don’t know what she looks like, if she’s kind or good or happy or healthy. I don’t know any medical history on her or the family I descend from.
I know she had the care and love and concern not to end the pregnancy; a pregnancy that wasn’t convenient, may not have been planned and certainly wasn’t condoned or approved of by her parents. I know she cared enough about the life growing inside of her to move across the country and live for close to two years; living with people she didn’t know and giving up her baby to strangers.
I wonder if she thinks about me as I think about her. I wonder if holidays and birthdays make her wonder who and what I’ve become. I wonder if she wonders what her grandchildren look like or if she wishes she could hold them or talk to them. I wonder (but think I know she didn’t) if she told anyone about me eventually; if she told my father, my grandparents, and her family.
The mother that raised me was a wonderful woman and I can’t imagine taking on a newborn at 47 years old – the age I am right now. I know she had been married once before and experienced several miscarriages that left her unable to bear children. She married my (adopted) father after years of being single and never expecting to fall in love, let alone marry or have a child. She raised me alone for many years after dad died and I wonder how difficult that must have been to be a single, older mother of a teenage girl. I had an idyllic childhood filled with friends, family, pets, love and a wonderful home. I wanted for nothing. She never failed to let me know I was chosen, adopted and that the choice was one of the best things she had ever done.
The mother that raised me met all four of her grandchildren, but not her great granddaughter. She attended my wedding and was present at the birth of my first child. She loved me above all – sometimes I think to the detriment of herself.
She never made me feel adopted or unloved or unwanted. She respected the choice made by someone else and never took it for granted. She taught me to cook and to stand up for myself and that beauty wasn’t on the outside but on the inside.
She raised me as I think my birth mother would have done. I love my moms.
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