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“Dad - when will I get to see my brothers and birth-mom again?”
The voice sounded more curious than accusatory. But in my mind, it was a condemnation.
It had been 6 years since we’d seen his birth-family.
I didn’t exactly feel guilty. But I was sad. Sad because I knew how much it meant to him. As my son grew older, he naturally asked more questions. The answers weren’t always easy to give.
But that was when I started the timer in my mind. It took another 3 years, but that’s when I started noticing the years and the distance and the separation that was beginning to dim the bright, shining light inside my son.
So when the opportunity was right, we began making plans. And this past weekend, we finally went back to visit.
Growing up as an only child, my friends were everything to me. I loved being with them. They became like brothers and sisters to me. I actually didn’t see them as any different from family. And I was lucky to have friends who treated me like their own family.
It didn’t help that my home wasn’t usually the most pleasant place to be. Coming home from school each day, I can remember the pit I had in my stomach. What kind of mood would my mom be in? Would she be drunk? Would I be fending completely for myself — or would I have to defend myself from her mean, drunken barbs?
My friends became my sanctuary. There were so many times I would just go straight to a friend’s house from school. Or escape to their house on the weekend. I was always looking to remove myself from the situation at home, and so I found refuge with friends. My dad tried his best, but as the sole breadwinner, he didn’t get home until later in the evening. That gave me 3-4 hours at least to deal with my mom by myself. And I usually didn’t want to.
This upbringing led me to a hard-won conclusion that I’m still not even sure is right: Surround yourself with people you love, no matter where they come from. You can love a friend more than a family member, and that’s OK. Just because someone is family doesn’t mean you owe them anything -- especially if they don’t treat you well.
It took me many years to get there. And even now, I still question it sometimes.
But this past weekend, I got a reminder of how powerful the bond of family can be.
My wife and I formed our family through open adoption, a process through which the birthmother places a child for adoption, and wants to continue the relationship beyond the birth. Usually in open adoption, you get “matched” with a birthmother while she is still pregnant. In fact, for both of my kids, I was in the delivery room and cut their umbilical cords. It is a very special -- and at times, strange -- arrangement.
In both of my children’s cases, we’ve formed close bonds with the birthmothers and their families. We’ve been very lucky to have found some great humans who care as much about the wellbeing of our children as we do. You can never have enough people to love your child.
In my son’s case, we met his birthmother when she was about 5 months pregnant. She had 2 boys at that point, aged 2 and almost 4. They lived halfway across the country, so it wasn’t always easy to get to them. Still, we’d been to see them several times since our son was born, but we had not been able to visit them for many years. The last time my son got to see them, he was 4. We show him pictures -- but he barely remembers any of it.
We were finally on our way to see them again. I could tell when we landed at the airport that my son was a bit nervous. I could feel his excitement. He was energized. It was late when we landed, so we checked into our hotel, and went to sleep. The plan was to drive to Lake Michigan to meet everyone on Saturday morning.
The 90-minute drive that morning was full of chatter. But as we got closer to our destination, the chatter died down. Silence took over. Nervous anticipation was settling in.
When we arrived at the meeting spot, we saw them sitting outside. His birthmother, his two brothers, and his younger half-brother.
The doors couldn’t open fast enough. The car was still moving, but my wife and my son jumped out before I came to a stop in the parking lot. My son’s oldest brother picked him up in a bear hug that lifted him off the ground. Giant smiles burst through the tears that were flowing. The 3 brothers just started chatting, joking, laughing…like they’d never missed a beat.
My son’s curiosity about his birth-family, and the increasing questions over the years -- it was all normal. But it belied a longing for connection, a longing to more intimately know where he came from and who he was. A longing for something that was uniquely his own. And the tears I couldn’t hold back were from the joy I felt in being able to give that to him, finally. And to watch him soak it in.
There was something in this moment that felt so familiar. So easy. For all of us. But especially for my son.
He had finally come back home.
We are his parents. His home is with us. But when I say he had “come back home” I am speaking to that feeling of being with people who know you in a different way, people who understand you and accept you for who you are. Being reconnected to your lineage. To see him be embraced and loved in this way, with no strings attached and no expectations -- it lifted my heart in a way that almost nothing else could.
We spent 2 days reconnecting and bonding with the people who love my son unconditionally, and the ones who have brought so much joy to my family’s lives through their sacrifice and courage. And in some ways it brought me right back to 13 years ago when everything was new and different and I held this boy in my arms and made a solemn promise that I would never fail him. And here we were.
So this weekend has caused me to amend my attitude just a bit. Because there is something powerful and special about having a place where you are always accepted for who you are. Where they understand your quirks and your idiosyncrasies and can say, “yeah I used to do that too” and you feel a sense of belonging that can’t be replicated any other way.
That place is family.
And this weekend, I watched my son find his way back to it.
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