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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
The search for my birth mother proved to be an emotional roller coaster, the repercussions of which I could never have foreseen.
I knew from an early age that I was adopted. My parents painted a picture of going to a nursery filled with newborn babies who had been given up for adoption and choosing me. As a young child I got into an argument with a playmate, who came from a large family. In the heat of our disagreement, I informed him, “I was chosen; your mother had to keep you.”
When I turned 21 my mother gave me my adoption papers. I had no idea what to expect. I was surprised, and moved, to learn that my biological mother had taken the time to give me a name, knowing that shortly thereafter she would be giving me up. It must have been an incredibly difficult decision.
I was often asked whether I had any interest in meeting my birth parents. As a young adult my overarching emotion was one of loyalty to the people who had welcomed me into their home and raised me. However, as I grew older and became a parent myself, it became more important to me that my birth mother knew that the couple in whom she had placed her trust had provided her son with a loving home.
Many years later, while looking at pictures of our own children, my wife reminded me that my birth mother would not be getting any younger. I tentatively reached out to social services in Nova Scotia. I was instructed to write a letter to my birth mother which, if they found her, they would share. They strongly suggested I avoid sharing details that might inadvertently give away my identity.
Two weeks later, social services called; they had found my biological mother! They spoke with her and shared my letter; however, I was sad to learn she had been upset about being contacted and was adamant about not wanting to meet. Despite my professed ambivalence about meeting, her reaction hardened me a little, and I convinced myself, and others, that I was relieved there would not be a face-to-face meeting.
After recovering from the initial shock, my birth mother thought it was important for me to know that she had given another child up for adoption about two years after I was born; a girl, who she claimed was my full biological sister.
Despite repeated prodding from my family, I procrastinated another five years before trying to find my birth sister. As I sent off my official request, I said to my wife, “Nova Scotia is a small place; we might know this person.” We laughed at the notion.
Three months later, I received a letter in the mail from my birth sister – on International Siblings Day, no less. I was a little unsteady as I opened the envelope and read.
I clearly remember being struck by how similarly our lives had turned out. Both of us had graduated from university and married the same year. She had four girls, including 19-year-old twins. We had been blessed with three children including our middle daughter, who was also 19. After reading the letter, a couple of times, I took it downstairs and gave it to my wife.
Shortly thereafter she came upstairs and exclaimed, “I think I know who your sister is!” I was incredulous as she explained how she had reached this conclusion.
Four daughters and 19-year-old twins had immediately caught her attention. If her suspicions were correct, we had spent the last 10 years sitting beside my birth sister and her husband, freezing on the sidelines of soccer matches and watching recitals and graduation ceremonies in overheated school gymnasiums as our daughters grew up together.
My heart was racing so I sent her husband an email asking him to call. Within 10 minutes he called and confirmed our suspicions. Based upon conversations we had had over the years, they had similarly deconstructed my letter and concluded that I was her brother.
Our first in-person meeting was awkward as we looked at each other for familial similarities. They were subtle at best. Subsequent meetings proved to be revealing as we learned more about each other.
We grew up eerily close in the same city and even attended some of the same schools! Our adopted fathers worked for the same company, which organized Christmas parties and summer barbecues we both recall attending as children. Fortunately, there weren’t any cringeworthy encounters in our adolescence.
Our families have embraced our newfound relationship. We will never have the shared history of growing up together, but nonetheless we are thankful to have been given the opportunity to get to know each other as adults and create our own memories with our families and each other.
Roy Richardson lives in Cole Harbour, N.S.
