My meeting with Hattie North today went well. My theory about Hattie’s voice to looks ratio was disproved by her lazy eye that was framed by a unibrow. Apparently women who sound harsh look harsh. I kept an eye out for Brooke with the beautiful voice, but so far the jury is still out on that theory. We know that women with harsh phone voices have harsh faces, but I am still convinced that women with beautiful phone voices are obese and grotesque. To be honest, I have no idea how I came to this conclusion to begin with, but I’m sticking with it.

I am sure you are more interested in what I found out about my birth mother than you are of my silly theories, so here goes. I have the name. It is written on a sticky note and folded up in my pocket. I haven’t even looked at it yet. I am not sure that I want to know! Hattie told me that my birth mother was very young, single, and felt that adoption was her best option. She was giving me a better chance at having a good life by putting me up for adoption. I still feel a little abandoned, even if the agents’ explanation makes perfect sense. I guess you can’t spend your whole life feeling abandoned and expect the feeling to just dissolve instantly.

Part of me wants to know her name, but the other part of me doesn’t. Knowing her name gives me the power to find her. Finding her is a huge step. Am I ready? I have no clue.

I’m going to look at the name now. For you. I know you’re dying to know, so I’ll look. If you weren’t here I’d leave it folded in my pocket and probably wash these jeans. That might be easier. Erase all evidence of my biological mother.

I’m a little disappointed to find out that I didn’t have a birth father on file. I have a perfectly good mother already, it is the father department that could use some improvement. If the name in my pocket had my biological father’s name on it I would have read it hours ago. I would have never put it in my pocket to begin with. Don’t get me wrong, Clinton T. Malone is a good guy and all, I just don’t think he tried his best with me. I mean what kind of prick tells a twelve year old that they were adopted? Kids who know they are adopted grow up knowing it, you don’t just spring it on them like that.

Anyway, back to the sticky note. I guess now is as good of a time as any….

Fawne Marie Lewis.

I’ve said it aloud about twenty times now. Nothing magical has happened yet. I know her name, yes, but I have no idea who she is. I have no idea where she is. I have no idea why she gave me away to perfect strangers. It says she lived in Capitol Heights, Maryland. Not so far away. I wonder if she is still around? I wonder what she did with her life? Is she a rocket scientist? Is she a third grade teacher? Is she a veterinarian? I don’t know much more now than I did when I started. What is in a name anyway? What if she changed her name? What if she is a famous writer and has a pen name? What if she is an actress and has a stage name? What if this name is useless?

I’m still just as lost as I was before, only this name has the power to unlock some doors that have been locked for a long time. I think I’ll go home and see Mom tomorrow. I could use some time with the one who actually wanted me before I start my quest for the one who didn’t. The sticky note? I’m putting it right back in my pocket. These jeans didn’t get dirty today, I’ll wear them again tomorrow-- with different underwear of course.