In the Wake of a new found freedom - Aftermath 2.0

“The world he thought he knew no longer made sense to him, and he began to change.” Nicholas Sparks - The Longest Ride.

In my previous post, I shared the story of finding my birth mother and how that journey unfolded. Now, let's relive into the moment when everything unraveled, and my adoptive mother discovered that I knew about my adoption.

It happened sometime after I had located my birth mother. In a casual conversation with my adoptive brother, I mentioned my discovery. He was lounging in his office chair, his face a stoic mask, as though he'd just stumbled upon a jigsaw puzzle missing half its pieces. No emotion, no reaction—just a grim blend of confusion and detachment. I’d hoped for a moment of connection, maybe a shred of understanding. Instead, his silence was deafening. No questions, no warmth, nothing to bridge the gap. It felt like disapproval, a quiet rebuke, and it was shocking in its lack of empathy.

My brother had never been one to display his emotions openly. He carried years of his own struggles, and yet, I assumed he’d understand. His silence, though, amplified my isolation in a situation already fraught with uncertainty.

A few days later, I got the call. Mom. That’s when I felt the sting of betrayal—I realised my brother had told her. The hurt ran deep.

Growing up, I idolised him. He was a genius in both work and study, the go-to guy at his job, the wizard who could resurrect broken electronics, and a maestro of thoughtful gift-giving. For my fourteenth birthday, he gave me an old portable TV for my bedroom, wrapped so meticulously I hesitated to open it. A friend had sold it to him and he had fixed the fault and tadaa! A fully working, funky orange television. My brither had the patience to help me grasp algebra and taught me to type on his ancient telex machine. Betrayal always cuts deeper when it comes from someone you admire so much.

I had to face the fallout. Reluctantly, I drove to my parents’ home. The air was heavy with tension even before I stepped inside. When the door opened, I followed Mom to the dining room—a room reserved for meals or formal occasions. Her choice of venue made the confrontation feel weightier.

The dining table, usually adorned with a delicate crocheted tablecloth and fresh flowers, now seemed like a stage for an interrogation. She pointed me to her chair, a deliberate move to heighten her authority. At four feet eleven, she rarely loomed over anyone. Sitting me in her chair gave her the illusion of dominance—she needed that control because she’d lost the narrative.

Dad stood silently behind her as he always did, a quiet spectator. My nerves frayed as the conversation turned combative. Mum started by blaming my sister for spilling the secret. Even in her absence, my sister became the scapegoat. I tried to deflect the blame, but it didn’t matter; Mom wasn’t interested in listening. At one point, before I’d learned the truth, I even wondered if my sister might be my birth mother—they were close in age.

As Mom stood over me, she unleashed her arsenal of cutting remarks:

“She didn’t want you!”

“She was some french woman!

" We have the paperwork.”

The words sliced through me. Rising from the chair, I leveled the playing field. I wouldn’t let her maintain the upper hand. This was my life, my story, and she had made it about herself—about what they had done for me, as if I owed them my silence.

“You were sick; nobody wanted you.”

“Your brother picked you out.”

“They told us not to tell you.”

Excuses designed to deflect blame and demand gratitude. But I countered, calling out their lies—the years of deceit, including the moment I questioned my brown eyes in a green-eyed family after learning about genetics in science class. At thirteen, I asked,

“How is this possible?”

Dad brushed it off with a story about a distant aunt in Germany. Even my grandmother, during a visit from Munich, commented, “She doesn’t look like anyone from our family.”

The lies unraveled under scrutiny. The irony was that Mom had always prided herself on being truthful. Her mantra, “I don’t lie,” rang hollow in light of everything.

The argument escalated until I revealed my birth mother was Irish Catholic. That revelation triggered something unexpected—Mom began to cry. I’d seen her cry only once before, after the golden boys suicide. Now, she sobbed, retreating into the kitchen and leaning over the counter, her head in her hands.

At twenty-one, I wasn’t equipped to process the moment fully. She had turned the situation on its head, making me feel guilty for confronting her. I went to her, put my arms around her, and assured her it was okay. She had won—the narcissist had regained control, leaving me to suppress my feelings for her comfort.

No one asked how I felt. It didn’t matter.

As I got into my car and lit a cigarette, I wondered why she hadn’t given me the paperwork she’d mentioned. We never spoke about it again.

In time, I forgave my brother and the rest of my family. They could never understand how deeply jarring it is to learn about your adoption as an adult. I later discovered many adoptees in Australia only learn the truth in their forties, fifties, or even later. Twenty-one might not seem so bad in comparison, but the loss of identity at any age is profound.

Every experience, no matter how painful, becomes part of the journey to finding yourself.

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