Terrified, romantic, wait

As you check your mail, you notice a letter that makes you stop in your tracks. It's one you've been waiting for, for years. You'd almost convinced yourself it was all a delusion, a bubble, a brain fart. A glimmer of hope had arisen that the letter would never come. 

You wished it would never come. 

But it has. 

Pretending they didn't exist was more comfortable than walking around, knowing that they were out there. The questions that you didn't want to answer kept your mind awake at night. You thought it would get easier as time passed, but it didn't. Your imagination would take hold of a niggling thought and turn it into a multiple Emmy winning drama in your dreams.   

It's too much for you to think about. You shake your head and place the letter on the bench. You don't need to read it. 

You know the law changed. You know that apparently, children have a right to know. Just because they're allowed to know, doesn't mean you have to let them know. It's why you're unlisted. It's why your social media is always hidden and under a nickname. You thought about changing your name. But it was a lot of effort.

Maybe, part of you wanted them to find you. You never moved towns. If you wanted to be unfound, you could have just gone elsewhere. You have a common name. There are thousands of you on Facebook. You wouldn't even have had to move interstate. You know the original records would say where you grew up. It's a small town. It wouldn't be hard to find you—even unlisted. 

You tried therapy for so long. You thought it could help you get over your distrust of people. Maybe you could make friends. But the fear never went away. It got worse. The heart palpitations, the sweats, then the two heart attacks. It was a lot. Your parents were gone. They died having never torn down the wall that was built between you. You couldn't do it. You couldn't forgive them for the doubt For their distrust. 

You are, at least, cordial with your neighbours, but you wouldn't call them your friends. If you had one friend, you could name. Maybe get them to read it first. It may not be him. Perhaps you're wrong. The law says he has a right. Maybe he does. 

You were young. You were scared. You had no support, and your parents were ashamed—the thought of telling them what happened never occurred to you. When you did tell them because you were so far along, you knew that part of them thought you were covering, the other thought it was your fault. 

You denied it had happened. You spent so long telling yourself it was your imagination. That that kind of thing wouldn't happen here. Not in this small town. That it was just a nightmare. You still don't know who it was. Your memory is so murky. They said your name, though. You remember that clearly. They said your name. You remember that. Clearly, they moaned and said your name. So, it couldn't have been an out of towner. It had to be someone you knew. But it was dark. You had drunk so much. You were so scared. 

So terrified.  

***

You still watch her. The woman. The one who ruined your life. You never even got to hold your baby. You would have raised it. Some dumb cunt left-wing fucking commies could be raising him. They could have raised him a fucking poofter. You could have a little faggot that came from your loins prancing around the place. Living it up in Sydney and dancing at one of those damned heathen gay clubs. Thank fuck there are none of those kinds living in your town—just that bitch.

She doesn't even know she ruined your life. She walks around all smug. Not making eye contact with anyone. Damn snob. She barely even talks to anyone. Bitch no doubt thinks she's better than you. Than your wife. Than your kids. But she wouldn't even look after her own kid. Your kid. Crying rape. Telling everyone. The longer you stayed quiet. The more people believed it. By the time the boy was born, you had to keep quiet. You know she thinks she's better than you just because she went to her fancy university. Every time you see her, you have to clench your fists so as not to wrap them around her skinny neck. 

You didn't rape her. I mean sure she said no to you, but after it was too late. No 18-year-old boy would pull out. It's not human. Not right. You know it was her fault. You just wanted to give her a kiss, tuck her in, but then she moaned. And before you knew it, you were in her. You can't change your mind halfway through. It was so quick. I mean it was your first time, so of course, you were fast. You're much better now, so it's nothing to be ashamed of. None of it was. Just because she was so drunk, she couldn't remember. She kissed you. It was too late for her to protest. She kissed you.

You've walked around with this part of you missing for so long. You have never been able to tell anyone. Not even your wife. She was one of her friends. She continued to try to reach out to her for years. Still tries to talk to her in the street. You never told her it was you. You knew the town had begun to believe the bitch, so it was best to keep quiet. Your wife thinks she is the only one you've ever slept with. She continually tells people about how you've only ever slept with each other. 'Isn't it romantic?' she says. 

So romantic. 

*** 

You posted the letter less than a week ago. It's too soon for a reply. Yet, you check the post box several times a day despite knowing the postie always comes late afternoon. You're not looking forward to your paternity leave being over. It will be impossible to not call home regularly to see if the post has come. 

You always knew you were adopted, but you had a happy childhood. Your parents were good parents. They loved you, and they had so desperately wanted a child. So, you never felt the need to find your birth parents. You even thought it would be an insult to your parents. Like you would be saying your parents weren't good enough, that they'd failed. You knew of other adoptees that had. They'd met siblings, cousins, parents, grandparents. But you never cared. You didn't think anything was missing. That was until you felt Ben move in Celia's belly. 

The moment should have been joyful. Your boy. Your boy was really in there and, you could feel him. You could feel him moving. You drove Celia nuts always asking to touch her belly. You couldn't wait to meet him. The love that squeezed out of your chest was so intense it was harrowing. But besides the love was fear. There was a loss, and it dulled the joy. It made it sad. You felt lonely, lost, confused and for the first time ever, abandoned. 

You question your existence. Something must have been wrong with you. Maybe you kicked too hard. Why didn't she fall in love with you the way you and Celia had? You wonder about your Dad and where he was in all this. The information that came with you didn't even mention them. It just said none of his history was known, but there were no major health issues on your Mum's side. You wonder if he even knows about you. Maybe she hid it from him. 

Sure, your birth Mum had been young, but it said she came from a loving family. Undoubtedly, they could have helped her. You know it was the 'done' thing in those days. If it was now, you might not exist, or you could have been raised in poverty. Sometimes in your life, you wish your birth Mum had had an abortion. You guess it's the same as ordinary people yearning they'd never been born. You just get to dramatise your story a bit more. 

You wrote a letter. It wasn't hard to find her. There was a woman with her name in the town you were told she lived in when she got pregnant. You asked about your family history. Your health and who your father was. You can't wait to meet them and introduce them to Ben. The thought of her not responding has never crossed your mind. So every day you wait. You hope and ache. You hold your infant son. 

And you wait.