When my children ask about their grandparents, I tell them about my father, a kind and funny obstetrician who loved to eat popcorn, drink Coca-Cola and watch Westerns; and my mother, a stay-at-home mum who likes chocolate and mystery novels.
I tell them their grandfather died when I was 18 and that their grandmother lives in Mexico City, half a world away from Australia, where I migrated to more than a decade ago. I tell them stories about my childhood – all the things that made it different or similar to theirs. But I often wonder when and how I will tell them about the most significant difference – the fact that I was adopted by my parents. Something I didn’t find out about until well into my 30s, before they were born.
Recently, we watched The Willoughbys, an animated movie about four children who try to get rid of their heartless parents. After the movie, my two children asked what “orphan” and “adoption” mean. I was silent for what felt like hours, a rush of adrenaline making my heart beat faster. This is it, I thought. I can explain this using my adoption as an example. But I couldn’t do it. All I managed to say was, “Adoption is when someone else becomes your parent.” Before more questions were asked, I raised a new one, “Who wants to help me make dinner?” My way of ending the conversation.
All I managed to say was, “Adoption is when someone else becomes your parent”
Some adoptees know details about their birth and adoption. I don’t. My adoption was a family secret.
Years ago, I lost a baby when I was 12 weeks pregnant. I was in shock. I didn’t know how to process what had happened: one day I was pregnant, the next one I wasn’t – and there wasn’t a funeral or a baby I could hold in my arms and kiss goodbye. I dealt with my grief by organising all the documents that certified my child’s existence. I needed to see the scans, read the discharge papers from the hospital, memorise every number in the blood tests.
Prior to my hospitalisation, no one had ever asked about my blood type, which I assumed was O+. But in those documents, I discovered my blood type was not O+, from my parents’ genes, but AB+. Time stopped. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I asked the GP if there was a mistake. No, no errors.
My husband helped me call my father’s youngest sister and then my mother. I asked, “Am I adopted? Why didn’t you tell me before?” The answer to the latter question was simple – adoption in Mexico in the late 1970s and early 1980s just wasn’t something people talked about openly.
I was adopted in Mexico City, right after birth. The adoption was a private arrangement between a young woman and my adoptive father’s best friend, who was also an obstetrician. He helped my adoptive parents with all the paperwork and managed to ensure it was their names, and not the young woman’s, that were on my birth certificate and the discharge papers.
The adoption was a private arrangement between a young woman and my adoptive father’s best friend
I grew up thinking I had my father’s chubby hands and broad forehead, my mother’s wavy brown hair, my grandmother’s pointy nose and my aunt’s almond-shaped eyes. Had I remained ignorant about my adoption, I would see some of those traits in my children, too – to be perfectly honest, I still see them. My firstborn son has those same chubby hands.
My adoptive mother claims to know nothing about my birth parents, and my adoptive father’s best friend said he did what was best for me and reminded me to “be grateful”. He remembers nothing about my birth mother, except that she was young, and her mother was upset about the pregnancy. Last I heard from him, he was sick, which means I may never know the full truth if he passes away.
I can’t understand why my adoptive mother won’t talk about the day she met me
My son was born two years after I found out about the adoption. It was then I stopped researching as a way of shielding myself from more lies and heartbreak. I can’t understand why my adoptive mother won’t talk about the day she met me, or why she alters little details about the adoption, confusing me even more.
My daughter was born 17 months after my son, and I was too busy adjusting to motherhood with two under two to have the mental and emotional energy to try to find my birth parents. But when my husband asked what it felt like to only know two blood relatives, our children, it sunk in: somewhere out there I have two birth parents and I want to try to find them. So, I did what other adoptees have done and tested my DNA through an ancestry website, because it was accessible and somewhat familiar.
My first match wasn’t my mother or father, as I’d hoped, but a first cousin. The next five people displayed on my profile were close relatives. Their surnames are common in Northern Mexico, where most of my matches are located. I have never visited the towns and cities where these blood relatives live. It took me a few weeks, but I gathered courage to contact them. My messages started with my name, a bit about me and what I knew about the adoption.
One of them, a well-known telenovela actress, replied. She was surprised and kind and promised to help me investigate, but I haven’t heard from her since January 2021. She doesn’t reply to my messages anymore. Another relative also replied to my initial message and we exchanged emails for a while, but his last email was in December 2020. Since the start of the pandemic, there have been COVID-19 related deaths reported in Mexico. I often wonder if my birth parents and some of my relatives are among the lives lost.
The secrecy surrounding my adoption has impacted the way I approach it
The secrecy surrounding my adoption has impacted the way I approach it. Things that should be straightforward, such as my children knowing I’m adopted, are a big deal because I don’t have answers and I worry about how it’ll affect their sense of self and their relationship with their grandmother and our Mexican family. After all, they are at an age when the concept of self is still malleable, fast-expanding.
My children are now five and six. While I figure out how and when to tell them, I will also be making peace with the fact that I may never know my birth parents, perhaps not even their names. My roots are severed, but I’m replanting them with my family. And even though we might not know exactly who our ancestors are, our tree will be strong, proudly Mexican-Australian, and hopefully no longer weighed down by secrets.
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