Today is my birth mother’s birthday. If we could celebrate her long life with brunch, I’d make a quiche Lorraine, fruit salad, maybe some blueberry muffins. I’d pack it into a basket along with mimosa fixings and take it to her apartment, where she lives with my birth father. They married nine months after my birth and relinquishment and have been together ever since.
I would set her table with the good china and crystal stemware – it’s a celebration, after all. We would sit together, just the two of us, and talk about the weather, the latest Wordle puzzle, what my daughters have been up to. At some point, I would reach across the table, take her hand in mine, look into those bright green eyes so like my own, and tell her how glad I am that we’ve reconnected. She would give my hand a squeeze and tell me that she is glad, too. Then we would pour another mimosa and go sit in the living room with my birth father. After a little chat, I’d clean up our brunch dishes and tuck the leftovers in the fridge for them to share later. I would give them both a goodbye hug and call out a casual “love you!” on my way out the door.
I would do all of those things, if I could. But the wall of adoption, with its foundation of secrecy, shame and guilt, stands between us. And while DNA tests opened some holes in that wall, allowing me to peer through to the other side, hear my story and get my medical information, the wall itself is not something my birth parents are willing to dismantle completely, and I cannot remove it without their willingness to do so. We stand on opposite sides of my adoption, as time runs out.
So instead of a lovely mother-daughter birthday brunch, I’ll celebrate her life on my own. This morning, I will write this blog post about my birth mother’s birthday. During the day, I’ll wonder if she’s getting flowers from her sons (my brothers), or if her granddaughters (my nieces) are visiting. This evening, I will light a birthday candle and set it in a cupcake. I will make a wish on her behalf, close my eyes, and blow out the candle.
