I come from what I can only describe as a good family background. The only thing that prevented my parents from celebrating their 50th Wedding Anniversary was the passing of my father. Husband, Wife, son and daughter living in a nice little home, in a middle-class neighborhood in Anytown USA.
It was a congenial household, but not one that was overtly big on the showing of emotions. In that regard it was rather stoic. TheDad kissing Mom on the cheek before heading off to work, a kiss or a pat on the head for me and my sister, and off he went. But I never saw anything wrong with that.
The only thing really different was that my sister and I were adopted. We were raised with the knowledge from very early on, and were OK with it, except for having to once and a while deal with kids who saw that as something to make fun of, or a visit to the doctor and being unable to answer questions like, “Do you have any family history of ?”
Regardless of what happens in life, I have always been safe with the knowledge that my mother loves me. She may not have given birth to me, but I really don’t feel like that makes any difference to me. This is the woman, that had to go out of her way and fight through the red tape in order to get me. She was the one there for every scrape and scratch, to cheer me on at my baseball games, to stand there so proudly when I graduated from school. To be my cheerleader when I was doing well, and a source of prayers for me when I went off the path in the wrong directions.
I have been asked many times if I ever wanted to find my real mother. It is a question that makes no sense to me, because I already know where she is. She is still in that same house where I grew up. Sometimes, I wonder because our home has been one more of cool respect rather than one of warm embraces, she knows EXACTLY how much she means to me. I always make sure I tell her, but I am never sure I am able to convey it clear enough. I sure hope she knows.