Revelations (revised again)

         It was autumn time when I discovered the secret my mother had kept from me my entire life. She asked me to clean out the attic. I sat among old boxes and trunks, memories surrounding me on all sides. In one of the boxes, I found an old piece of artwork I must have done when I was at least 7 years old. My artistic abilites had not improved since then, I thought. Tristian had gotten all the art talent.

         Then it happened. I stumbled upon The Secret, lying amongst vintage clothes and spider webs, dust and stale air. It fell from my mother’s old leather-bound journal that I had picked up, the pages frayed and colored tan by age. It was my birth certificate stating my name as Chloe Fiona Martin, not Roberts, as I have known myself to be for all twenty three years of my life.

         My stomach lurched and tied itself into thick knots. Was this some mistake, some typo on the hospital’s part? Was Tristian not my blood brother? Had he known as well and not told me? Questions filled my mind until there was no more room to fit them all.

         I bolted out of the attic, back down into the house, running through the hallways to the phone. It was my first instinct, call my mother and ask her. Ask her what this meant, what happened and why? The line on the other end greeted me with a busy signal. The next person I called was Tristian. He must know something about this, he was my older brother, he had always been there, and surely he could answer my questions. His cell rang twice before he finally answered.

         “Tristian,” I started, shakily. I may have panicked prematurely, but that was me. Never calm until knowing the truth.

         “Hey Cricket,” he said, calling me by his long time nickname for me. Normally I would respond by calling him Grasshopper, but I was too focused and serious.

         “Tristian I think…I think I’m adopted…” I said, horror and shock filling my voice. Tristian laughed, not believing me straight away.

         “Don’t be silly, Chloe, you’re not adopted,” he said casually as if me being adopted was ludicrous. And it was.

         “No Tristian you don’t understand. I found my birth certificate,” I told him. He was quiet, letting me go on.

         “It has my name as Chloe Martin, not Roberts,” I explained. Tristian remained quiet and it killed me. He must have known and now he and my mother were busted, caught red handed, in a family lie that would tear us apart. It would change things forever, we would never be the same.

         “That has to be a mistake Chloe, a typo. Why would you be adopted?” He asked. I said nothing in return. Tears started to fall.

         “If you know something, tell me,” I said.
         “Chloe, you are my blood sister. We have the same birth parents. I wouldn’t keep such a secret,” he said, his voice soft. I believed him. He tried to calm me and I pretended that he succeed, though I was still upset when we hung up.

         Once my mother arrived home from work that night, I approached her with my questions. I showed her the birth certificate that had revealed the truth. I could see the surprise and alarm in her eyes, in her face. She wore it openly, like she couldn’t believe she was caught.

         “Just tell me the truth,” I asked. She sat on the couch, running her hands through her fiery red hair.

         “It’s true,” she said, giving in. I couldn’t believe it. Tears sprung to my eyes.

         “It can’t be…” Tristian said from the door. I didn’t know he was listening in. He was good at being stealthy. Our mother stood up, called Tristian into the room, stood him beside me.

         “Chloe, you are adopted,” she said firmly, as if deciding to be strong about it and looking me straight in the eyes. There, I saw the truth. I let out a sob and covered my mouth with my hand to hold in the bursts of shouts and emotions residing within me.

         “She’s…not adopted,” Tristian said, disbelief dripping off his voice, his brown eyes shadowed in shock and hurt. He ran his hands through his long dark, wavy locks.

         “She is,” our mother, his mother, said to him.

         “Why didn’t you tell me before? Like when I was twelve maybe?” My voice was filled with sarcasm and hurt, tears crawling down my face, escaping my body and the pain that had suddenly moved in. She sat on the couch again, her own eyes welling.

         “After Tristian was born, I was unable to conceive again. I so desperately wanted a little girl. Our only choice was to adopt,” she stood up once again. She never could sit still.
I stood there, watching her lips move, listening to her words, yet I still did not believe. I was looking at the woman I had thought of as my own mother my entire life, and now, in the span of twenty four hours she was not. She had the same fiery red hair, the same chocolate brown eyes, but she didn’t look like the same woman to me. She was just some woman I had lived my entire life with, a woman I had once thought of as a mom.

         “I didn’t tell either of you. I wanted us to all be one happy family, I didn’t want you to feel that you were not truly a part of this family,” she said to me.

         “And I didn’t want you to treat her differently,” she said to Tristian.

         “Then your father died and I was left to care for the two of you on my own,” she said softly as if we should feel sorry for her.
Nobody said anything after that. I went up to my room, upset and not talking to anybody. Tristian remained in the living room and my adoptive mother sat in the kitchen, crying softly. I lay in my bed, drowning in tears that I could not control. I couldn't just write the woman off though, as bad as I wanted to. I loved my mother, the only one I'd ever known, but the trust was severely broken. If The Roberts were not truly my family, then who was? I began wondering about my birth parents, my true parents, my possible other siblings. I suddenly didn’t know who I was. Who was Chloe Martin? Where did she get her dark hair and round brown eyes, her pale porcelain skin and thin eyebrows?

         I decided that I was going to find out about my birth family. I asked Mother about them. What did she know of them? Why had they given me up? She couldn’t answer them, except that their names were James and Elizabeth Martin. I said the names to myself, getting used to them, imagining the people behind them. Wondering about their lives and their stories and what they were like. I did my research and found that James Martin was living in upstate New York. A week later, with a teary goodbye between Tristian and I at the airport, I was on a plane to Greenville, seeking out answers to my questions.

         I took a cab to the address I was given by the operator. I was nervous. Finding out who you truly are, discovering a secret past you didn’t know you had, can wreak havoc on your emotions. I walked up the long gravel driveway that lead to the big red house, surrounded by forests on either side. A blue Chevy truck sat in the carport. I knocked on the door, my hand shaking. It was a few beats before a tall, older man, probably in his late 40s stood before me, his brown eyes peering questioningly back at me.

         “Can I help you miss?” He asked.

         “My name is Chloe Roberts,” I started, unsure of whether I should say Roberts or Martin as my surname. The honest truth was that I didn’t feel like either. I just picked the one I was used to.

         “I’m looking for James Martin,” I tried to steady my voice.

         “I’m James Martin,” he said and my heart stopped. I was talking with my birth father. The revelation left me stunned and speechless.

         “Miss, can I help you?” He asked again, looking almost irritated. I cleared my throat.

         “It’s…it’s me, Chloe. Your daughter,” I said and suddenly recognition registered across his old face.

         “C-come in,” He stuttered, opening the door for me. I followed him in. The house was warm and cozy, the kind of place that makes you feel welcome and at home instantly. James sat me down and offered me a drink. Politely I accepted. He sat down with me and my past caught up with me.

"Why did you give me up?" I asked, looking into my tea cup. He sighed deeply. "When your birth mother died, I didn't think I could handle raising you by myself," he explained. "And the sadness of losing her," he added. I didn't know what to say to that, but suddenly I felt upset that I had been given up.

         As if he could read my mind, he said,"I'm so sorry Chloe. I was young and...and..." he trailed off. "I just hope you can forgive me," he said finally.

         I thought about it, and decided that if I could forgive Mother for keeping the secret, then I could probably forgive this man for giving me up. We all make choices in life and sometimes we don't know if they are right or wrong. All we can do is what we think is best. I nodded at him and he told me about my step-mother Maria and my little half-sister Isabella.

         Maria was Mexican and had deep dark eyes that were almost black, olive skin and long dark hair. Isabella, who was 16, was the spitting image.

         Everything that took place in that house changed my life forever. I discovered parts of myself I hadn’t known. I looked exactly like my birth mother and I laughed like her too, according to James. I left upstate New York a new person. I felt whole. Like pieces of a puzzle had been restored to their proper places. When I arrived home, Tristian greeted me with a hug. I’d missed him. Though he was not my brother by blood as I had grown up to believe, I still felt he was. We remained as close as ever, even with Mother. And for the first time I knew who I was.