I am an adult adoptee.
I was permanently separated from my mother at birth. I don’t know if she held me or fed me or counted my ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes. (I like to presume she did, because mothers love their children, right?)
I didn’t know her name until this summer. I don’t know what she looks like, what her voice sounds like, where she lives, if she’s funny, like I am. Crafty, like I am. Broken, like I am.
I don’t know the story of my conception and birth.
I know what I’ve been told, but as an adoptee you learn that people lie: to protect you, to preserve the image of adoption, to make themselves feel better, to hide the fact that they don’t know the answer.
I may never get to meet her or hear her story.