Two days before Christmas, I received a letter in the mail from a man claiming to be my long lost brother. The letter stated that the guy’s name was Clinton and he was 32 years old. He was the oldest.
He claimed that when our mother gave birth to him, she gave him up for adoption because at the time she did not want kids. He said he was told that the reason she did not want kids at that time was because she was not married. A year later after Clinton was born, she gave birth again. She was not married then either, but she kept the baby.
The letter continued with Clinton stating that it broke his heart finding out that his mother had given him up only to keep the next baby.
Even though, a nice, wealthy family had adopted Clinton and had treated him like their very own child, it hurt him to know that his real mother did not want him.
Clinton looked for his real family for years. He spent a large amount of money trying to find us. When he had found me, he thought he would send me, his youngest sister, a letter. But it was not a letter stating that he wanted to meet, or a letter stating that he wanted to get to know me; it was a letter stating that I was the very reason why he decided to commit suicide.
My name is Clinton and I am 32 years old. I am Older than you by one year.
Our mother, Judy Barns, gave me up for adoption after I was born. I was told that Judy did not want children during that time because she was not married. But Judy was not married when she gave birth, again, a year later. Do you know how painful that is to hear?! Do you know how messed up that information made me?! I never married myself because I was afraid I would turn out like that crappy mother of ours! What‘s so great about you that she kept you? What made it so easy for her to decided which one of her kids were not good enough to be loved and which ones were?! I know she’s dead. I know I will never have my true answer, and it kills me inside that I won‘t have my answer before I die.
I know how she died and I know that she died when we were still young children. I just want you to know that I celebrate that day, the day Judy Barns died, every year like it is a birthday party. I am glad she was killed. I just wish it would have happened after I had my answer.
I know you’re wondering why I am telling you all of this hateful stuff. Well because it is only fair to take this anger out on you too since you’re the one who survived the robbery that day Judy died. I spit when I think about how she shield your body to protect you from being killed. You never deserved her love.
You’re crap and I spit on the day you were born. I hope you know that you are the very reason why I decided to take my own life. It is you and your crap of a mother’s fault. The family that raised me were rich and nice. They treated me like I was their very own, but to know my own mom did not want me, but kept you, hurts. I hope this letter finds you well and make you hang yourself as well.
At the bottom of the letter, the lines on the paper were faded and crinkled. He spat on the letter as a signature.
On Christmas Day, I showed my grandmother the letter.
“Your mother did have a baby boy before she had you. She never told me what happened to the baby. I just assumed that the baby had died after birth. We never questioned her past life; to be honest, we did not care about it. We just assumed Judy was unstable in the head and did not question why she did what she did after you were born.” my grandmother kissed my cheek, and continued “We were too happy and focused on our blessing from God when you were born. You were our little rainbow baby.” She said. I squinted my eyes before I brushed that information away. I gave my grandmother a half smile.
My grandparents raised me because our mother had died when I was young. I never met Judy, so it hurt when Clinton blamed me for her decision.
When my grandmother saw the hurt in my eyes, she gentle touched my hand. “But don’t blame yourself. All this happened before you were born. At least he won’t bug you anymore.” She finished.
I knew it was not my fault, but the guilt of someone wanting to take their own life because of my existence, broke my heart just as much.
I found it hard to eat Christmas dinner. It was also hard to celebrate Jesus’ birth with my extended family with Clinton on my mind. Someone was dead and it was because of me.
Around nine that night, my husband whispered in my ear that there was someone at the door for me. I grabbed my coat and quickly went outside.
“Why aren’t you dead?” I asked heartless. I knew it was Clinton. I had hoped it was him. I could not help but to be mad at a guy I never knew.
“I wanted to meet you” he said. I smirked. This man, this very man made me feel like crap all day, then decided that he wanted to meet me before he took his life and blamed me for everything?!
“Get out of here” I turned to walk away.
“Wait!” Clinton yelled after me
“The letter wasn’t for you.” I squinted my eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”
”So. . .“ he rubbed the back of his head. “It was meant for your twin sister . . . The one Judy kept.”