You’re Never Too Old to Learn the Truth

After what seemed like a very long pause, he said, “You probably already know this, but did you know you were adopted?” “WHAT?” I screeched. “NO, I DIDN’T KNOW…!” Silence…

My mind was racing, still trying to comprehend his words. I was shocked and dazed by my brother’s statement. I started asking questions: “Who told you this? How do you know? Are you positive? Is this a bad birthday joke…?” My brother and I never were very close; there was such a large age difference, we grew up almost separately. He told me he had learned about the adoptions, ten years ago, at Christmastime, from an older cousin who remembers bits and pieces of information dispelled sparingly from our adopted mother, Frances. Yes, Michael had also been adopted, at the age of four and a half from an orphanage. I learned I was brought home from the hospital at three days of age. He remembered very little about the event, but didn’t realize that I too was adopted. I had a “normal” upbringing in a lower-middle class blue-collar household in suburban Washington, DC. Dad was a truck driver; Mom was a housewife, now known as a stay-at-home mom.

Although we moved thrice during my childhood, my schooling was very stable and I feel I received a good solid public school education. I attended the University of Maryland, graduated with a BA in Secondary Education. I eventually left the nest and have had a relatively successful life. There was never any kind of abuse: physical, emotional, or sexual. I know very little about my birth parents. I am told my birthmother was a married pianist in Washington, DC whose husband was stationed overseas, either in Germany or in Korea. While he was away, she became pregnant with me as a result of a casual relationship. She carried me to term and adopted me out before her husband returned home. I guess she wanted to have a future and a family with her husband and didn’t want him to find out about her infidelity and spoil her plans for her future.

An attorney brokered my entire adoption transaction in what was then called a “gray adoption.” Frances swore the family, both sides, to secrecy and all complied. I never suspected anything out of the normal; I really was never given any reason to think otherwise, and life went on. Frances died in the summer of 1989 at the age of 72; Mike lived another six years and never told me, even after she was gone. We became very close after Frances’ death, yet he continued to harbor the secret. When I finally was told about my adoption, I started calling relatives. Frances’ older sister, now 98, said she thought I knew, that I had been told. She knew next to nothing when it came to details. My two older cousins confessed they also knew I was adopted. When I asked the three why they never told me, my aunt said it wasn’t her responsibility to tell me and my cousins kept the secret to honor their late Aunt Frances.

Since all this has happened, I feel like my life has been turned upside-down. My relatives are quick to point out that nothing has really changed. They still love me, etc., etc., etc.! True: nothing has changed for them; meanwhile it feels as though everything has changed for me. I’ve been searching for information online, but to no avail; I’ve made numerous phone calls; I even have an online agency currently doing the research on my behalf. Nothing yet. I’m told for my age my birth parents may very well be dead. Still, they may not. Perhaps I have a half-brother or a half-sister out there who might like meeting me after all these years. I don’t know. My birth mother lived on the other side of DC. So close, yet so far away. I currently reside in a small beach town on the mid-Atlantic coast, about 125 miles from the DC area. There are no support groups here or anywhere nearby. I’ve talked to therapists, but they just don’t get it. Being able to write this has given me a bit of peace because I instinctively realize the psycholinguistic value of catharsis. Thanks to all who have taken the time to read my story.

– Tony M.