I called my Mom earlier and managed to find out the name of the agency that handled my adoption. It took a little deception, but after a few questions I got it out of her.
United Methodist Family Services of Virginia.
That was my lead.
What next, you ask? Well what would you do? I googled it of course. Turns out my birth mother contacted an orphanage. She wasn’t looking for a family to take me, she was looking for a way to get rid of me. I felt like giving up, but didn’t. Whether she wanted me or not then, she is going to meet me. I want her to look me and see what she gave up. I’m a handsome guy who would make any mother proud. I was at the top of my class in high school, graduated Valedictorian of college, and now work at Starbuck’s. Not exactly the grand finale that you expected, no, but I make a mean chai tea latte. Besides, I have a long life ahead of me. Plenty of time to conquer the world and make the Forbes 500 list.
1-800-ADOPTION.
I pulled out my phone and dialed it. “Thank you for calling American Adoption, this is Brooke.” I hung up. Another obese woman with an attractive voice and a swimsuit model's name. Why couldn’t I just talk man to man with a man for once? Well, I couldn’t let that hold me back. I dialed it again and this time asked for information on contacting my long lost relatives. I explained that they were the agency that found my adoptive parents for me and that I was seeking my original gene pool. I gave my name, phone number, adopted parents name, birthday, the works. Brooke promised to call me back within twenty four hours with my birth parents’ names, if the information was available to the agency. She may even be able to connect me with the agent who handled the case. I don’t know what to think, but know that I am one step closer to showing my real parents what they are missing out on.
Part of me feels sorry for Mom and Dad, but the other part of me knows that it is my right. It doesn’t mean I love them any less. It doesn’t mean that I’ll let Dad off the hook as my father. It just means that I’ll know where I started. I swear when I meet my birth mother I’ll ask her where I was conceived. Then maybe you and I can swap stories. Wouldn’t that be nice?
I was born on September 28th and adopted on the 29th. There is one day of my life that is unaccounted for, and I am going to find out every last detail of that day. When Brooke calls me back, I’ll be one step closer to knowing. I know you must be on the edge of your seat… Believe me I just laughed and even snorted. You probably don’t care anything about my missing day, but how would you feel if you didn’t have a newborn mug shot? How would you feel if your own mother, the woman who raised you and forced you to eat chicken noodle soup when you were sick, didn’t hold you until you were over a day old? You wouldn’t like it any more than I do.
Twenty four hours is a long time. Even though I have a cell phone, for some reason I am staying home and sitting by it, like it is hanging on the wall or something. I am immobilized by the excitement, and believe me I don’t excite easily. I could win a million dollars and would still just give the man holding a giant check a thumbs up before folding the check and putting it in my giant wallet. Jumping up and down and screaming is just not my style. It never has been. I guess I am a little like my Dad in that respect. You know, Clinton T. Malone, let HIM find YOU a HOME. I’ll never stop making fun of that cheesy phrase, but I have to admit that no matter how cheesy he is, he can stay as calm as a cucumber no matter what he is faced with. Maybe excitement levels and reactions are not hereditary.
The phone rang and my palms got sweaty. Suddenly I had a lump in my throat as I squeaked out a nervous “Hello?” It wasn’t the adoption agency, it was my manager at Starbuck’s. If anybody asks, I have the flu.
