Connections and Reconnections

Leaving school on a Friday used to be the best feeling in the world. It felt like freedom, like the world was my oyster for at least two days. No teachers, no rules, no reading!

Now it feels dull, just like every activity that once excited me. I don't care for two days free from teachers because I don't listen to them anymore anyway. It doesn't matter if I don't have to follow rules because I don't do that anymore either.

Today marks a whole month since the world seemed to have stopped spinning.

My family has always been open about me being adopted, but it wasn't until recently I was able to track down my biological family.

I sent my mother a letter telling her who I am and all of the accomplishments that I've reached in my 14 years. I told her I wasn't mad she gave me up and I'm sure she had a good reason. I told her she picked a perfect family and that my parents were the most amazing people I'd ever met. I told her about my sister who was also just recently adopted and how I am teaching her to ride a bike. I told her how I love to cook and hope to be a chef. I told her everything I could imagine she would want to hear.

I was excited to write it and I thought she would be excited to read it. For two weeks I ran home after school to check the mailbox. By week three my excitement started to fade and I began questioning if she would reply. After the fourth week, I called the post office to see if maybe they forgot to deliver her letter back.

Today marks one month and now I'm rethinking every sentence I wrote as I walk home from school. Did I share too much? Too little? Or does she just not care?

I try to blink back tears at the thoughts intruding my brain and think back to a conversation I had with my dad a year ago when my best friend Annie decided she didn't want to be friends anymore. We were sitting on the couch and I tried to look away to hide that I was crying, but he kept gently touching my chin to bring me back to him.

"How you react to this is on you," he said. "Do you want to sit here crying and overthink why this happened again? Or do you want to accept that she made a decision that you may never understand and focus on making new friends?"

Tears streamed down my face as he talked. I couldn't imagine life without my best friend, but I also didn't want to cry anymore so I listened carefully as he spoke.

"Instead of being sad, be happy for the memories you had," he said. "Pray for her tonight and pray for yourself. Ask God to give you the strength to accept that which you cannot change or understand."

I had nodded and agreed to use the power of prayer to get over my friendship breakup. Sometimes I forget to pray then something big happens and I need to ask God for strength, but I feel bad because I never talk to Him any other time.

Tonight is going to be one of those nights. I can't believe she didn't respond. I am more upset at this than I have ever been in my whole life. Even more than when Oliver said he didn't like me back in the fifth grade but I thought I was in love with him. Even more than when Annie ended our friendship as we neared high school.

This was a different kind of pain. It started as a small thought in the back of my mind that slowly grew and spread throughout my body until all of my limbs felt heavy and I had no energy to do anything other than peek into the mailbox every few days.

I remind myself that I need to pray for strength as I approach 21st Street. In my deep thought, I barely register that I am approaching a crosswalk and nearly step into traffic. The loud sounds of cars rushing by me seem to snap me back to reality and I realize I'm getting close to home.

I watch the street light change from green to yellow to red. As the cars slow to stop in front of me, I cross the street and begin to think about my biological mother again. What kind of car does she drive? Does she even remember me at all?

I keep my head low and watch my feet as I step one foot in front of the other like a zombie. A zombie is really all I had been for the last few days. I always thought it was cool that I had a whole family out there waiting for me to find them but I never expected they wouldn't respond to me when I did.

I push the gate open to my front yard and decide not to think about this anymore. The family that raised me is all the family I'll ever need. They were there since the day I was born and raised me as their own, they are my family. These other people are just strangers who share my DNA.

As I walk across the yard trying to comfort myself I notice something hiding behind the flower pot next to the front door. My heart skips a beat as I get closer and realize it's a package.

I run the last few feet to the door and yank it out of its hiding spot. The box is addressed to me, but there is no return address. Is it possible she responded with a whole package?

I fumble with my keys as I work to unlock the door, but for some reason today it seems impossible to do. I finally push the door open and immediately start calling out for my family. The big house responds with an eerie silence.

I hurry to the kitchen, tossing my book bag on the floor but gently placing the box on the table. It looks so clean and perfect, wrapped in tight brown paper. It's not much bigger than a shoebox and can't possibly weigh any more than one.

My name and address are scratched across the front in handwriting much smaller and more rushed than my own. I wonder if that's her handwriting and am a little disappointed it's so different from mine.

For a few minutes, I sit at the end of the table just staring at the box. I am anxious to rip it open and see what's inside, but I also want my parents to be here for this. I've been talking about this for a month, they probably want to be here for this.

The clock on the wall shows it's 3:47 p.m. My mom is usually home by 4:00, but can I wait that long? I'm certain my body is about to explode as I try to decide. My heart is racing with excitement, but my brain is telling me not to get my hopes up yet. The tips of my fingers thump against the table for what feels like forever, but when I look over at the clock it's 3:48 p.m.

Twelve minutes, I can do this. I pick the box up in my hands and try to imagine what could be inside. Gently I run my fingers over each letter written on the box and try to imagine what she looked like writing them. The mental image of an older version of myself holding this exact box just a few days ago fills my brain and the excitement is almost too much to contain.

I rush over to the counter and pull out the drawer we keep our scissors in. There's no way I can wait to see what's inside.

I shove the scissor into the top of the box, tearing right through the messy handwriting and neat wrapping. My heart is pounding and immediately I am sure this is from her.

The box contains a photo album, a small jewelry box, candles, and a neatly folded scarf that sits on the top. In the middle of the scarf lay a small white envelope with my name written across it in the same scratch from the box.

This is so much better than I ever imagined. Just ten minutes ago I felt more sad than I ever have. Now I'm full of ecstasy as I wrap the scarf around myself. It's clearly not new and has a soft vanilla smell to it. I bring it to my face, wondering if this is what she smells like.

I carefully open the envelope, also bringing it to my nose to take another sniff of the vanilla. Tears flood my eyes as I begin to read, unsure if this is really happening or if I'm dreaming.

She tells me she thought of me every single day since we last met and is thankful my family has taken good care of me. She also loves to cook and has included a few of her favorite recipes. She explains the jewelry box is full of her mother's old treasures and the scarf is her favorite but she wanted me to have all of it. The candles were also items she liked and wanted to share with me.

I'm standing over the box in a full sob as I read the card, then read it again. I'm almost surprised I even have any tears left to fall, but they just keep coming. Finally, I put the card down and rest back on my chair, a big smile across my face and tears staining my cheeks.

I am so consumed by the moment I don't even hear my mom walk in the room.

"Hey honey," she says, placing her bags down on the counter. Her eyes find the box on the table and she rushes over to me, kneeling before me and taking my hands in her. "Oh, Grace. Is that from your mother? Did she respond?"

I look at the woman who raised me through my burning eyes. My eyelashes are clumped and I can feel water dripping from my eyes to my cheeks and then onto my chest.

She kisses my hand and for the first time I notice some gray hairs poking out of the top of her head. They may have been there for a while, but this is the first time I've seen her at this angle. It feels like I am looking at her with a whole new vision from here and I also notice small wrinkles gathering next to her eyes.

This woman took me in and raised me to be who I am today. The tired look on her face is from working to support me, the lines on her face show years of smiling and laughing with me. The grey hairs are probably from the "D" I got in English last semester.

Everything about this woman in front of me shows that she is the best mother I could have possibly ever asked for. I never needed anyone else to feel complete. She was always there to hug me when I was scared or to kiss my knee when I fell. She spent countless nights staying up late to practice my vocabulary words or the multiplication table. She made sure I never missed a dentist appointment and brought me for ice cream after.

The idea of having some other family out there seems to disappear from my mind. I wipe my cheeks and kneel down next to her on the kitchen floor.

"You're my mother," I say reaching out to hug her tight. "The only mother I'll ever need."