Cottages and Castles

Dear Katie,

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m now in my fifties or if it’s the weight of the task itself, but writing this letter to my younger, fifteen-year-old self feels like a mild form of torture. Still, I’ll take a deep breath and plunge right in.

It’s hard to pinpoint what exactly drove me, when I reached my thirties, to become so determined—so utterly consumed by the need to embark on a quest that had haunted my thoughts for years.

But I can tell you this: I was excited, ready to dive head-first into what I believed at the time was a meaningful adventure. One that would define my worth as a human being and fill a void I couldn’t quite name.

I was searching for my birth mother.

But it was more than just that. It was the possibilities that could come from finding her—the chance to connect with a biological father, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. The mere idea of a vibrant, fascinating family out there gave me butterflies, chills, and a warm, summer-breeze feeling all at once. Was there a big, happy “other” family waiting for me to discover?

This isn’t to say that I didn’t already have a wonderful family—you, even at fifteen, know that I did. Mom and Matthew, my brother and my best friend, were like Mom’s apple crumble fresh out of the oven, all warmth and comfort, smelling of cinnamon, butter, and brown sugar. Mom always had this gentle, fragrant presence about her, a mix of floral perfumes and body mists that made her skin bright and dewy. And by adopting Matthew and me, our parents showed a depth of love that never wavered—especially Mom, who continued to nurture and care for us after Dad up and left.

But here’s what you don’t know yet, Katie, and why I’m writing this letter while you’re still so young. I want you to have time to properly contemplate everything I’m about to tell you.

It all started when I turned thirty-three, an eerie, slinking fear slithering into my heart as our family began to dwindle. Dad’s abandonment, Auntie Lucy’s death, and then the loss of my husband, Ryan, only a few years after our daughter Jenessa was born—it felt like life was chiseling away at our family, piece by piece. It took its toll on me. Jenessa was growing up, and I wanted more for her. I longed for what I saw on TV—big family dinners at Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter, a house full of relatives celebrating birthdays, weddings, and graduations together. Those gatherings became my ideal, something to look forward to like that first cup of coffee in the morning or a refreshing swim on a hot day.

So, I started my search and quickly became obsessed. I wasn’t going to quit until I found the woman who gave birth to me and then gave me away.

Although Matthew and Mom supported me through it all, I knew deep down that my quest hurt them. It was like a tiny bee sting—a small, persistent pain in their hearts, making them wonder why they weren’t enough for me. But we, you and I, didn’t see it. I was too wrapped up in my search, blinded by some fantasy of faith and hope I clung to.

Before I realized it, Mom got sick—Myocarditis—and couldn’t fly. The trip to Hawaii that we kept putting off was no longer possible. I knew mom, Matthew and Jenessa were all heartbroken and I remember the guilt sluicing through me like a gallon of acid burning me from the inside out. And Katie, I knew that feeling would never fully go away. It would ease with time and forgiveness, but given a second chance, I would have stopped my selfish pursuit in its tracks. I would have fought the obsession and never let it hurt the people I loved.

But despite the guilt and sorrow, I stubbornly kept going, kept pushing, kept searching.

And then I found her. In New York City.

New York wasn’t too far from my native Toronto, but it was far enough to warrant catching a plane, especially with the looming weather forecast. It was mid-November, and I was already on edge—icy roads were the last thing I needed.

As expected, it was a blustery Friday, marking the start of a long weekend I’d earned through saved-up holidays. I had managed to book a red-eye flight, and it felt as if the two cities were mirroring each other when snow began swirling from the skies at Pearson International Airport, only to continue falling like cotton balls outside LaGuardia. The cold bit sharply in both metropolises, and I briefly entertained the idea that this shared wintry weather was a good omen. Perhaps the blizzard would make me feel more at home in the Big Apple, with Toronto being just as crisp and frosty.

But, as I climbed into the taxi cab upon my arrival in New York, and watched the clouds release more of the fluffy white stuff, I knew I couldn’t afford to let my thoughts wander down strange paths. The real challenge was keeping my mind from fixating on the fact that I was heading into uncharted territory—traveling alone to a place I’d never been, to meet someone I’d never met. That was the thought that flustered me, and I had to work hard to banish it from my mind. She was expecting me, that’s all that mattered I told myself, but in my spellbound state, I refused to see how reluctant she had been to invite me over.

When the taxi pulled up to her house, the driver whistled, "Wow, fancy house. Lucky little lady, aren’t ya?" But I wasn’t sure yet. My hands shook as I rang the bell, wondering if it was the cold or my racing heart.

A boy, about ten years old, answered the door. He had a black eye and a cut on his lip. He barely whispered, "She’s in her office over there," pointing to a room off the marble foyer that smelled of Pine-Sol. In that moment, I couldn’t help but feel homesick for my cozy little house, which always looked like a storybook cottage when decorated with Christmas lights at this time of year.

My mother—the woman standing behind a large mahogany desk—was tall, with ash blonde hair cut into a bob that swung when she moved. Her skin was smooth, her eyes hazel, her lips pale peach. She was on the phone, and without looking at me, she motioned for me to sit.

"No, Roger, this is not acceptable," she hissed into the phone, her voice rising in frustration. "Bart needs to stand up for himself. I refuse to coddle him. I’m tired of his black eyes and bloody noses. He’s almost eleven, bullied for over a year, and it’s your job as his dad to make him understand he needs to toughen up and fight back. Get him into a self-defense class or boxing lessons—do something!"

She dropped the phone onto her desk with a thud, startling me. Then, as if flipping a switch, she turned her attention to me with a calm, almost honey-tinged tone.

"So, you’re the daughter adopted by… Sarah and Paul Jessup, correct?" she asked, glancing at her notebook.

I nodded, twisting my wedding ring nervously—the ring I still wore despite losing Ryan five years ago in a car accident.

"And I suppose you want to know why I gave you up for adoption, is that it?" she asked, her voice dripping with impatience.

Before I could respond, she continued, "I’m sorry, Katie, but there’s no dramatic story here. I wasn’t assaulted, poor, or incapacitated. I was just young. I had plans for a career in finance, and a baby didn’t fit into that plan. I’m glad I excelled in my career, but I couldn’t let anything get in the way of that."

She gave me a wry smile, so forced it almost made me laugh. But I held it together, clearing my throat to speak—though she didn’t give me a chance.

"I’m satisfied," she said with conviction, "that you fared much better with your adoptive family than you ever would have with me. There were other things going on back then, but I won’t get into them. I’ve told you what you need to know. Now, if you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get my checkbook to reimburse you for your trip before showing you out."

I refused to cry. I willed myself to hold back my tears until I was outside in the cold, or in the cab, or in my hotel, anywhere but there, in front of her.

Quickly, I mumbled that I understood and ran out the door before she could force her dirty piss off money into my hand.

Later, after begging Mom for forgiveness— which she graciously gave because of who she was—I searched my soul, trying to make sense of how the woman who gave birth to me could be so cold, so devoid of warmth, a statue sculpted from stone, living in an ice castle. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was hiding something.

Sure enough, a few months later, I received a letter—a handwritten note on paper—from a man claiming to be my biological father.

"Your bio mother, who recently gave me the heads up that you visited her, didn’t outright lie to you," he wrote. "She was self-absorbed, focused on her future, and gave you up because she didn’t want to be a mom. But she didn’t give you up to an adoption agency—she gave you to me. I wanted you. I fell in love with you the moment you were born. But I was too young, too helpless, and too irresponsible. I was the one who surrendered you to the authorities, and it was your adoptive parents who chose you. I’m too embarrassed to meet you now; like the woman who gave birth to you, I too, was never meant to be a parent."

It was another blow, a hurt filling me like dirt pouring into a grave.

But it was my daughter Jenessa, wise beyond her years, who comforted me in the end.

“Mom,” she said, “your birth parents are not, and never were, your family. They may not have wanted you, and that’s hard to accept, but given the choice, who would you want to be wanted by? Them or Grandma Sarah? Grandma Sarah may not be your biological mom, but it’s a wonderful miracle that when it came to love, she chose you. You’re the chosen one, you’re the one she chose to love and that has never changed.”

So, Katie, even though you’re only fifteen, don’t ever get caught up in searching for something that was never meant to be found. Go to Hawaii with Mom, Matthew, and Jenessa before Mom gets sick and can’t travel. You do have family celebrations to look forward to, and you will be close and loving with those who have always cared for you. Your family may be smaller than you hoped, but it will be the best family you could ever have.

And here’s a lovely surprise: at fifty-seven, you’ll become a grandma yourself, to Jenessa’s wonderful twin girls—Aravana and Anastasia—who are the sweetest, most adorable babies in the world. Love, not blood, will connect you to your family. It may not be a huge, dynamic, or exceptional family, but it will be one that is genuine, tender, and true—a family that will always love you.

Yours truly,

~Katie