The Letter

It was late last Saturday afternoon when I arrived at the communal mailbox that was shared by all the tenants in my apartment complex. It was a muggy, sultry kind of day and I delayed collecting the mail as long as I could. I was not interested in walking out of my air conditioned apartment and out into the 100 degree weather that is so common around here at this time of year. I casually opened my cubby hole sized mail cubicle and extracted the contents. I half expected it to be full of junk mail. I wasn’t disappointed. There were two catalogues for clothes, a newsprint flyer from my local supermarket, a key for a package I was expecting, and under it all was a plain business sized envelope. The address was neatly printed...the sender chose to print the envelope and not hand address it and there was no return address or name. Being in a bit of a hurry to get out of the heat, I shoved the mail into my backpack, used the provided key to collect my package, and scurried back to my apartment before I thought I would pass out from the heat.

Since the letter had nothing that made it stand out, I thought it was just another piece of junk mail and left it unopened in the growing pile of junk mail on my kitchen table. I usually read the junk mail as I ate my dinner. Tonight would be no different. I scanned the periodicals and found nothing of interest. I came again upon the non-descript letter and opened it.

“ Dear Birth Mother” it began. “I’m writing this letter to you just to introduce myself to you. I think you are the woman who gave birth to me twenty five years ago,” I paused to take in the information. How could he know? I never told anyone about my son. Curiosity got the better of me and I read on, “Let me introduce myself to you. My name is Andrew Jason Smith. I was adopted by a wonderful couple when I was just a few days old. I would love to meet you, but I would understand, unwillingly, if you chose not to meet. How can I convince you that we should meet? I have so many questions about you, but foremost is why did you give me up?” That question made me stop reading and put the letter down. I knew that I would eventually finish reading it, but not now.

My dreams were troubled that night. Accusations flew. You were raped. You didn’t want the child. Your fiance left you because of the unplanned and unwanted pregnancy. Your life was ruined. What did you do to cause this...this...pregnancy?

The shame and turmoil I went through twenty five years ago ran rampant through my waking thoughts for several days. I eventually decided I needed to finish the letter. Andrew stated that he wanted to meet me and gave me a phone number to call. Timidly I punched the numbers into my cell phone...and waited for the call to be answered.  A young male voice answered. “This is Andrew Smith” I heard. I gathered up all the emotional strength and managed to squeak out “You sent me a letter”. I heard a lot of boisterous commotion coming through my phone. I nearly hung up because I was so anxious. 

“I was hoping you’d call,” Andrew eventually said. 

“Why do you want to meet?” I feebly squeaked out. I was dreading this conversation.

“I will explain all that when we meet.” Andrew said. He gave me the date, time, and location and then disconnected the call.

At the appointed date and time I found myself at the address he’d provided. I was as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I climbed the steps to the porch of the house and before I could knock on the door, it swung open. An elderly woman was there to greet me. “I’m Gloria Smith,” she said. “I was told by my son, Andrew, to let you in,” she said as she stepped aside and ushered me into the well appointed living room. I took the offered seat and quietly waited.

After a few uncomfortable and quiet minutes a tall, blonde, young man breezed into the room from somewhere deep within the house. “I’m so glad to meet you!” he exclaimed. “My name is Andrew, and I wrote you that letter.”

My throat was so dry I could barely speak. “Why?” was all I could muster.

“I have a ton of questions to ask you,” Andrew said. “Questions my parents could not answer.” 

I nodded, preparing myself for the onslaught.

“You gave me up for adoption. You didn’t want me. You never wanted me. These and more statements like this ran through my entire life.” Andrew began.

I just sat there with my head hanging low. I was unable to speak or even move. He had the right to feel so much hatred for me. These were thoughts I’d had for the last twenty five years.

“I must tell you,” Andrew continued, “that I don’t hate you. I’m grateful that you gave me life and allowed me to have wonderful parents.” Andrew paused. “But I feel like something’s been hidden from me and you have the key.” I looked up to find Andrew and his Mother staring at me.

It was time to let it all out, I told them how I was only eighteen and was raped. I never even considered abortion. I decided to have the baby and put it up for adoption. My fiance at the time couldn’t understand and insisted that I have an abortion. When I stood up for myself and told him that I was going to give birth, he decided that he didn’t want any used goods and left me. I was alone the day Andrew was born. I held him and told him he was loved and would be going to a loving family, and then I signed the adoption papers. Unfortunately they never caught the man who raped me so I couldn’t tell him about his biological father.

Andrew spent the remainder of the visit telling me about himself and his life. He did his best to alleviate my shameful thoughts about his birth. How successful was he? Only time will tell.