Then she started telling me the story.
I had been two years old when I arrived at Maplewood House.
My biological parents had been involved in a serious car accident.
Neither survived.
There had been relatives on both sides of my biological family, but complicated disagreements kept anyone from immediately taking custody.
Weeks became months.
Nobody came.
Mom was working as a nurse at Maplewood at the time.
She and my father had been unsuccessfully trying to have children for years.
Treatments.
Disappointments.
Hope followed by more disappointment.
They were beginning to accept that parenthood might never happen for them.
Then Mom met me.
“The first time I met you,” she said, crying now, “you grabbed my finger and wouldn’t let go.”
She smiled through her tears.
“That was it for me.”
Eventually, she and Dad adopted me.
“Legally,” she emphasized. “Completely legally.”
They had hired an independent attorney because Mom already suspected something wasn’t right about Maplewood.
Every form had been reviewed.
Every court requirement had been completed.
Whatever corruption existed at the facility, my adoption itself had been legitimate.
I listened.
Then I asked the question that hurt the most.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mom’s face crumpled.
She explained that when I was little, they had been advised to wait until I was old enough to understand.
So they waited. Then, when I was finally old enough, she became afraid.
She kept waiting for the perfect moment.
My tenth birthday came and went.
Then my eleventh.
Then my twelfth.
Each year gave her another reason.
Not today.
