My relationship with my mom was never like the ones I saw in movies or read about in books. We weren’t close, but we kept in touch through occasional calls and birthday cards. When I moved away for work, the distance didn’t change much. We still had this unspoken gap between us.
I tried to visit her a few times, but she always had an excuse. One time it was a church retreat, another time it was helping a friend with an art gallery opening, and then she was visiting an old friend in Arizona. After a while, I stopped asking. But the questions lingered: Why was she avoiding me? What was so wrong that she couldn’t even bear to see me?
One night, I couldn’t sleep, and I decided to surprise her. I booked a ticket and showed up at her doorstep without warning. As I entered the house, I saw a girl standing in the kitchen. She looked like me, with the same slant in her eyes and the same way her mouth pulled to the left when she frowned. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
My mom appeared, and her face went white when she saw me. She stuttered, “You weren’t supposed to come today.” I asked her who the girl was, and she finally revealed the truth: the girl was my daughter. I had given her up for adoption fifteen years ago, but my mom had decided to keep her and raise her as her own.
I felt a mix of emotions: shock, anger, betrayal, and sadness. I couldn’t believe my mom had kept this secret from me for so long. I didn’t know what to do or say. I turned and walked out of the house, leaving them behind.
The days that followed were tough. I went through the motions, but inside, I was hollow. Memories started coming back, and I realized my mom had been hiding something big. She had raised my daughter as her own, giving her love and family, while I had given her away.
I thought about my daughter’s face every day, wondering if she thought about mine. I waited for the anger to settle, for the grief to become softer. And then, one day, I decided to take a step forward. I went back to my mom’s house, and my daughter answered the door. I told her I was scared and made the only choice I thought I could when I gave her up. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me, and I felt a sense of healing.
My mom joined us, and we started talking. We couldn’t go back, but we could go forward. I knew I couldn’t undo the past, but I could shape what came next. My mom would always be her mother, and I was just someone learning to be part of her story. We sat, talked, and began to build a new relationship, one that would take time, patience, and understanding.
