Finding My True Mother

I have never seen my baby pictures; I have never heard stories about my first words or first wobbly steps. I do not carry memories of my nightmares being quelled by my mother in the middle of a cold stormy night with me like many other people do. My mother would have never done this for me. When I was only a child, she relegated out of my life. She left me in my oversized crib wrapped in a deteriorating blanket she engulfed with her warm-vanilla perfume. Well, this is what multiple adoption agencies have told me. She left me to face the world on my own; she left me to a life full of questions. What did my mother look like? What would my life have been like if I lived in one home with one family for the first fifteen years of my life – rather than four? Why did my mother leave me? Most importantly: Who am I?

Now that I am a teenager, this question becomes more significant in my life. Every day I go to school as a recluse with my face hidden behind my long curly blonde hair, and my thin arms tensely wrapped around my books, hoping people would just ignore that I even exist. When I walk from class to class, I see beautiful, confident girls who are comfortable in their own skin - something that I wish I could be. I know that I would be confident in myself if I just met my mother. I would be able to ask her the myriad questions that I have about myself, so that I could truly know who I am. Knowing who I am is the first step to other people knowing the true me, and to accept me. I want to fill the hole in my heart that my mother made the day she walked out of my life.

This was what I thought before March 20, 2010.

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March 20, 2010 was the day that I decided to find my mother. I had gone through my daily morning routine of waking up to the extremely loud beeps of my alarm clock, washing my face, trying to clean away unkempt looks that my short six hours of sleep has provided to my face, and whipping up a dozen eggs for my brothers and sisters while my foster parents packed their lunch boxes. I then ran out the door, desperately sprinting to catch my bus. Luckily, my bus driver, Gus, had a late start at D&D's to buy his three daily donuts. He was more of a glutton than anyone I had ever met, but he was one of my true friends in high school
As I approached my bus, and walked up the few stairs, I slipped on a piece of ice that had fallen off of the sole of one of my classmates shoes. I heard multiple laughs and rude remarks in attempt for some puerile “cool” boys on my bus to get their morning pick-me-ups. My face then took on the shade of an apple. I sunk into my seat behind Gus, and he gave me a piece of his jelly donut. I really liked Gus, and if it wasn't for him, I don't think I would have been able to make it through high school. The few moments that I had with my buddy on the bus then ended when we turned the sharp corner onto Hill Street, into the parking lot of a building of ridicule; my high school.
I would go to school day to day, knowing that I would be made fun of at least once in the long six hours there. People found joy in my pain, and thought that if they made fun of me for my dysfunctional childhood, they would feel cool and powerful. Is this what my mother wanted? Did she want my life to be torture? When I was walking off the bus into the frigid winter air, I decided that the moment I got home that afternoon, I would find my mother.
Finally, the ever-so-slow minute hand on the clock had reached the twelve, the gentle bell rang, and let to the rumble of many students rushing to their cars roared in the hallways. As many of the people from my classes walked out to the student parking lot to their new fancy BMW's and Volvos, I approached my means of transportation: the big yellow bus.
After I had my quick snack, I paced into the computer room, and started to search for my mother; the mystery woman. After a few clicks, I found enough information that would allow me to easily contact her. Eagerly, I grasped the house phone, and called the Rehabilitation Center, in which Google said she had been residing. I did not know if this was a sign that this was a bad idea or not, but I did not care, and I began to dial the ten digit number. I was sanguine. My hands were trembling, and my stomach was in knots. I had never been so nervous, because I knew that this would be the conversation that would change my life. I was then startled out of my nervousness by the receptionist’s magnanimous voice. I spoke to her for a few moments, and she then connected me to my mother. I don’t think I have ever been so nervous in my life. My face was sweating, my hands were shaking, and my heart was pulsing a thousand times a minute. Why was this happening? She was just my mother.
“Hello?” her voice sounded like a stranger.
I was speechless, when I opened my mouth to speak nothing leaked out.
“Hellooooo?”
“Mom… Hello…. It’s your daughter, Jamie,” these words have never come out of my mouth.
“What do you mean? How did you find me,” to my surprise she did not seem elated. She sounded like she did not want to hear my voice.
“It wasn’t hard; I just searched on the internet. Would you want to get together, maybe this weekend? I would love to meet you, and ask you a few questions. Maybe we could fix things, maybe you could be in my life again… Mom I need you,” I had spilled my heart to her hoping she would give me a chance.
“Um, I’m sorry…. This isn’t a good time. I have to go,” she said it like she didn’t even care.
I was speechless again when I heard the heartbreaking dial tone. This was not the speechlessness that I had before, though. I was not hoping, praying, excitement that made me speechless. It was disappointment, failure, hate, and disapproval. These diverse feelings all converging to make the hole in my heart augmented.
I sat there, sitting on the cold wooden chair staring at my phone for over an hour, alone. I will never find myself. The questions that I have been dying to answer my whole life will remain unanswered until the day I die.
Then, the door crept open. It was my foster mom. She heard me sobbing, and ran into the room.
“Honey what’s wrong?”
“She doesn’t love me. She will never love me,” everything I was feeling inside of me burst through my skin and into these words.
She pulled me into her loving arms. She held me there, assuaging me, comforting me, wiping away my tears. She told me she loved me.
It was that moment that I realized that my mother was not the woman who gave birth to me. It was the woman that loved me, the woman that raised me, and the woman that truly cared about me. My true mother was the woman that was holding me in her arms. I had finally found myself. The hole in my heart had been filled, I now new the true meaning of family, and the true meaning of love.

From that day on, I went to school with my head held high. I went to school with my hair pulled out of my face, so that everyone could see me smile. I made new friends, and was garrulous and loving to everyone. This was what I wanted my whole life. Everyone could see the true me. Everyone could see the real Jamie.