Oh, And Her Name is Kathy

A mother comes clean (almost) about the child she gave up for adoption.

“Mom, what do you mean your “other daughter?” I ask, speaking in a calm, soft voice, as if to someone who is maniacally waving a bomb around, threatening to drop it at the slightest provocation. In reality, she had already dropped the bomb, but my brain was struggling to catch up and I was having no small amount of difficulty comprehending the enormity of what my mother had just blurted in my ear. As words began to tumble through the phone receiver, I realized I was holding it so tightly it might be in danger of snapping in two. Focus, focus.

“I never told you, but I had another daughter after you and I gave her up for adoption. But, she wanted to find me and she called tonight. I just got off the phone with her. You have a sister! Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Wait! What did you say? You had a baby and gave it away? Mom, what are you talking about?” Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I felt sure the room was spinning. “Where’s Dad, Mom?”

“He’s asleep already. But, did you hear what I said? My daughter called me!”

“Stop saying that. I heard you. I just don’t understand. This doesn’t make any sense.”

Now it was Mom’s turn to speak slowly to me. “Okay. Listen to me. When you were still a baby, I had another baby. I didn’t want to lose you, so we moved to Clovis and I had the baby and gave her up for adoption. She said she always wanted to find me and now she has. She’s coming for a visit next weekend! Aren’t you excited?”

“But---“my voice trailed away. I thought that surely my mother must hear the staccato beating of my heart through the phone lines. “How did---“I tried again, but still the words just wouldn’t form. I gave up and simply sat there at my kitchen table, staring at the fake wood grain of the table, letting my eyes relax, become unfocused, until the pattern of the grain in the wood veneer became a mass of swirls, dark and light, rising and falling with each breath I took.

“Well, if that’s all you have to say, I have to go because I still have to call Michael and tell him.” She was testy. Apparently, I had failed miserably at producing the joyful response she was looking for. “I thought you would be happy. You always used to say you wanted a sister.” Zing.

Her attempt to make me feel guilty for not giving her the reaction she wanted snapped me out of my stupor.

“Whoa, hold on a minute. So, you’re telling me that Mike and I have a sister who is younger than I am, but older than Mike? And you gave her up for adoption and you just never thought to mention this to us? Where does she live? How old is she? What do you mean you were afraid of losing me?” I paused for the briefest of moments to catch my breath, fully intending to continue with my barrage of questions. There was a very conspicuous silence on the other end of the phone.

“Mom.” Not a question, a statement. No response at all. More silence. “Mom?” Nothing still. “Okay, Mom, why are you crying?”

Her pitiable, tear-laced voice squeaked back at me, “Why are you being so mean to me? You don’t even care how hard this is for me.” A pause, for dramatic effect. Then, “I was so excited about telling you that you have a sister.”

“Mom, I’m not trying to be mean to you. Obviously, I’m a little caught off-guard here. You call me and say you just talked to your daughter as if I’m supposed to know what you’re talking about, you don’t explain anything and then you get pissed at me because I don’t have the right reaction. Help me out here, Mom, I’m a little confused.”



She makes me eat crow a while longer, tells me – again - how disappointed she is by my reaction, then finally decides to answer some of my questions. She tells me that after I was born, she started dating a man before her divorce was final. He was a navy man, too, just like my father was. He wanted to marry her, she says, but he was shipped out before her divorce came through. She found out she was pregnant after he was gone and when she wrote him, he didn’t believe the baby was his so she never heard back from him. Ever the victim, I find myself thinking, not because I am heartless, but because I have lived with her stories and with her martyrdom for twenty-six years and I am tired.

“I didn’t know what to do because I couldn’t lose you, so we moved to Clovis and I had the baby and gave her up for adoption.”

“Okay, but I still don’t understand the part about losing me. What was that about?”

Silence. Again. Then a muffled sob. I am desperately trying to keep the irritation from my voice when I say to her, “Mom. Please stop crying and tell me why you thought you would lose me. Who was going to take me away from you?”

“Well, your father, of course. We weren’t divorced yet and if he found out, he would have taken me to court to get custody of you.” She dissolves into tears. Maybe I have judged her too harshly. I consciously soften my voice when I begin speaking again.

“But, Mom, I thought you said he never even came to see me? Why would he want to get custody of me? Don’t cry. I am really trying to understand. Really.”

“You just don’t know how he was. He would have done it just to get back at me. You don’t know.”

I tell myself she is right. I don’t know. Somehow, I don’t remember to ask her about the fact that I lived with my grandparents until I was three-years-old. On the other hand, maybe, I just didn’t have the energy to have that discussion. I don’t remember. I give in and try to comfort her.

“It’s okay, Mom, don’t cry. When did you say she is coming to visit?”

“Who?” She blows her nose loudly.

“My sister, Mom. When is she coming?” Breathe, just breathe.

Her remarkable powers of recovery allow her to reply with no trace of the copious tears she was shedding only moments before. Amazing.

“Oh, next weekend. She’s coming next weekend with her husband and my two granddaughters. Oh, and her name is Kathy.”