Getting Along

I have never gotten along with my family. And, don’t get me wrong, they are amazing people. But I have never felt fully accepted. Maybe it’s because I was abandoned at birth, and was left in an orphanage until I was 7. And though I was adopted relatively early on, the resentment I had fostered lasted through the rest of my childhood and adolescence. I could never quite place my finger on the reason why I hated my adoptive family so much. They had always tried so hard to get me to open up to them, and yet I’d always rejected them. And, to this day, I continue to do so, sticking hard to my vows to never speak to them again once I had left the house. 

I am 37 now. My adoptive parents are in their early 70’s, and my siblings are around my age. They have learned to accept that once I had moved out - 20 years ago, to the day - I would never speak with them again. I promised to myself that the coldness within me would be permanent, regardless of what my heart told me it craved.

Yet, there I sat, at my grandfather’s grave, wondering if I had been too harsh. My grandfather - who was on my adoptive mother’s side - always seemed to try the hardest with me. He always bought me the newest technology, always got me the hottest toys. To this day, I still possess my collection of handmade birthday cards signed specially by my grandfather and his wife. When I visited him, I found myself regretful, for though he had always been so kind to me, I had never expressed gratitude towards him. He always made me think, the old bastard. Even in death, he seemed to have a way with his words. Today, his words seem to be stronger than they ever have been.

Taking a deep breath, I left the cemetery and went to find my adoptive family’s house. They didn’t live very far from the cemetery, so it didn’t take long for me to be at their doorstep. I stood there, dressed in my black jeans and navy blue winter coat, my hair tied up in a bun. I had grown a decent beard, and have changed drastically over the 20 years since they had last seen me. I hesitated, my hand closed in a fist, hovering over the door. I suddenly felt my breath go short, and my stomach started to knot. Everything came back to me in that single second. I heard my family’s pleas for me to come out of my bedroom. I saw the old dining room table, which was always piled up with meals my mother - my adoptive mother - would make with an extra amount of love, and always smelled like what one would think home smells like. Her meals seemed to carry a tune, one that sang the importance of family, and one that sang of the pain of grief, of hoping for a miracle. It was then, I realized, that such songs weren’t sung in the light of my grandfather’s rather sudden admittance into the hospital, but rather were sung for me. No matter how alone I had ever felt in my albeit miserable life, I had not gone through life alone. Granted, though it was, that I spent my very first 7 years in hell, I spent the next 12 under a roof that cared not only for those who were born and raised within the house’s walls, but for those who were born beyond, too. 

I blinked, coming to my senses. A warm feeling crept up through my chest, and I felt my cheeks pushing my eyes close. My clenched hand, ready to knock on the redwood door, shook with anticipation. Taking another deep breath, I brought my hand firmly on to the door, knocking three times before standing there, waiting for someone to answer. I had a brief moment of horror, wondering if I was at the right house, wondering if, even if I was at the right house, they would recognize me. My thoughts were too soon interrupted when a tall old man opened the door. His skin was pasty white and blotchy, and his eyebrows were thick and grey. He had a full head of thick, grey hair that curled around his pointy ears. A brown overcoat hung over his shoulders over a grey aran-knit sweater and khakis. His mouth, lacking any teeth, hung open, and his bluish-grey eyes stared first in shock, then in grief, then in joy, as tears welled up and slid down his face. I smiled, and embraced the old man, realizing that I, for the first time, felt something that wasn’t cold towards the man I could call my father.

“Oh, how I have missed you, my boy,” his father sobbed. “I’m so sorry I let you down.”

“No, Dad,” I reassured him. “Let’s go inside. I have lots to tell you.”

His father backed away, smiling, nodding his head as he waddled back into the house, pulling me with him. Immediately, the aromas of home hit me, just as they had done before I knocked. I heard the wordless, soundless symphonies of love and family again, this time fully understanding what they meant. The living room was as cozy as it ever was; two brown, leather recliner sofas were backed against two adjacent walls, facing the electronic fireplace, which acted as a TV stand. The curtains were drawn, casting a flower pattern on the wall as the sunset cast itself through them. My father opened the door to the dining room, and its warm light flooded into the living room, baking it in a golden orange. Beyond the door, the dining room table stood exactly as it did 20 years ago. A white, intricate table cloth was tossed over it, with a basket of various fruits resting in the middle. The hardwood floor was spotless, apparently freshly mopped - courtesy of his mother. Next to the dining room, the kitchen had also remained just as I remembered it, with a gas stovetop atop a marble counter, and a large, stainless steel oven next to it.

My father pulled out a chair and sat at the dining room table, gesturing towards me to sit. Still reluctant, I snapped out of my reminiscent daze and followed suit. My father took a long look at me, as if he believed he was outside of reality. His smile had yet to leave his face. It was perplexing how, after all these years of avoidance, he could be so willing to allow me back in.

“How have you been, my boy?” my father asked me.

“Life has been… interesting, I think,” I answered.

I proceeded to tell my father about my job as a graphic designer, and about how I hope to take it somewhere in the near future. I told him about my frequent visits to Grandfather’s grave, and how many days went by that I regretted the way I treated my family in life. He continued to listen, expressing concern, joy, sadness, and sympathy when need be. I realized just how much I had missed out on. 

In turn, he told me about how he and my mother had been planning on renovating the house, but have been putting it off because they don’t want to pay a carpenter to help with it. He told me about how he picked up golf, and about how he finally understood why old people seem to love it so much. He told me about how my mother was at the market, shopping for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. My siblings were on their way from different states, just to get some of mom’s cooking. Such a dinner has always been tradition, even since I was adopted three decades ago. 

As if on cue, we heard the front door open. A stout old lady with short white hair pushed open the door to the dining room carrying four large paper bags filled with groceries. She dropped the bags onto the table and slid off her long, black winter coat. Only then did she take in her surroundings. She took a single look at me, and leapt with joy. She pulled me out of my seat, laughing, and held me in her arms in a warm embrace. Her breath was shaky, and her cries of joy were accompanied by tears. 

“You said we’d never see you again,” she cried. “We thought we had failed you…”

“Mom, no,” I told her. “You could have never.”

She backed away, holding me at arms length. “You’ve changed so much!” She exclaimed. “Look at your hair… and your face…”

I laughed. Then, taking a breath, I addressed both my mom and dad. “I am sorry,” I atoned. “I made a pretty serious promise 20 years ago, that you guys would never see me again. And I can only imagine how broken your hearts must have been.”

They looked at me endearingly, tears returning in my father’s eyes. Wordless, they came over to me, and pulled me in for a hug. I felt warm and safe, protected by my parents’ tight grasp. Though I was well into my adulthood, I felt as though I were a child, scared and alone, with only the reassurance of my parents to guide me. And piercing through the fear and loneliness was a warmth I could never have described before. A warmth that surpassed that of the summertime, and that of the cozy living room. It passed through my chest, and spread throughout my whole body. It was something I hadn’t realized that I had been lacking for my entire life.

“I love you, so much,” I whispered.

“I love you too,” my parents whispered back simultaneously. 

At last, I understood that coldness that had resided in my heart for so long. At last, I understood the melodies that the dining room table had sung to me as a boy. At last, I understood the meaning and importance of family. And now, a few days later, as I sit here enjoying a piece of nicely seasoned turkey, stuffed with everything a mother could make it with, I am finally able to taste the love that I had been so desperately searching for.

~Fin~