By Laura L. Engel
The author and her son Jamie.
In 2016, I was living a great life, newly retired after a 35-year career in the corporate world and enjoying the extra time to indulge in travel with my beloved husband. That spring, on a whim, we decided to submit DNA tests to Ancestry.com.
Privately I hoped for a miracle. I had a secret.
In 1967, I’d given birth to my first-born child in an unwed mothers maternity home in New Orleans, Louisiana. I had been a typical 17-year-old high school senior with plans for the future that evaporated overnight.
In the sixties, it was considered close to criminal for a girl to become pregnant with no ring on her finger. The father of my child had joined the Army, preferring Vietnam to fatherhood. After my parents discovered my shameful secret, I was covertly hurried away and placed in an institution for five months. There, I was expected to relinquish my baby immediately after giving birth to closed adoption and I was repeatedly assured my child would have a better life without me.
After his birth, I was allowed to hold my son three times. My heart was permanently damaged when I handed him over the final time. The home allowed one concession—I could give my baby a crib name. I named him Jamie.
***
For decades I privately grieved my son but never spoke of him. Many times, I furtively searched for Jamie but always hit a brick wall. Adoption records were still sealed in Louisiana, continuing the archaic shadow of secrecy.
In October 2016, while out walking my dogs one evening, a ‘Parent/Child Match’ message popped up on my iPhone, causing me to stop me in my tracks as my knees gave out from under me.
After 49 long years, Jamie had found me. Who was he? Where was he? Would he hate me? How would this affect my life? My family? His family?
I had always dreamed of finding Jamie but never thought past that point.
My hands shaking, I gathered courage and wrote back to this man who now called himself Richard. Within minutes he answered. At first, we tiptoed around each other, answering basic questions, but soon we were pouring our hearts out. My son was back in my life, and I learned I had three new grandchildren. All the while shame and fear bit at me as tears streamed from my eyes, but simultaneously overwhelming joy and hope flooded through me.
That night I heard my son’s voice for the first time. The wonder I felt when he said, “I know your voice” transformed me. In minutes, the secret of my son changed from fear of anyone knowing about him to wanting to shout out to the world, “My son has found me!”
Between tears and laughter, our first conversation lasted four hours. It was torture. It was euphoric. I cried. He cried. A tremendous relief replaced fear.
All the reunion experts warn, ‘take your time—do not rush into your first meeting.’ Neither one of us cared what experts said. Within four days, Richard flew from Louisiana to California to meet me. That first meeting was magical. My son was back in my life, and suddenly I was whole.
We discovered we delighted in each other’s company, and nature trumped nurture in many aspects of our lives. Richard resembled me in appearance and personality, and to my delight his oldest daughter was my tiny clone. I was smitten and immediately fell deeply in love with him and his children.
My husband, children, and stepchildren welcomed Richard and his family with open arms, and I pinched myself. My life took on a whole new dimension as Richard and I tried to make up for lost time. Two thousand miles did not keep us apart.
For three years, we made multiple trips to see each other, spending holidays and time together. His family welcomed me with open arms, too. Both of his adoptive parents had passed away, and I sorely regretted not being able to thank them for loving my son and giving him a good life.
2020—COVID happened—suspending all trips back and forth. We called, we texted, and all the while I watched as this son of mine started to break down before my eyes. A messy divorce, loss of job, and unhealthy isolation began to destroy him. Depression had colored my mother’s life, and I watched with hands tied as it was destroying his. Desperately, I advised him as a mother, counselor, cheerleader—but this was beyond my mothering skills. He seemed unable to pull himself out of a dark hole and I worried daily.
In February 2021, we had what would be our last conversation. Before hanging up Richard said, “I love you, Mom. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
I cherish that phone call. Two days later, the son I had mourned for 50 years, the son who had found me, left me again. He took his own life. Now I had lost him twice and this time was forever.
A year later and I have torn myself up over the “what ifs” the “could I have done more?” My grief has been crippling, but slowly I have come to realize that as painful as his loss is, I am forever grateful for our fleeting time together and I would not trade it for anything. Without our magical and much too short reunion, I would never have known about his childhood, the good man he was, or felt the love he imparted to me. I would never have forgiven myself for leaving him, and I would never have known my beloved grandchildren. Through them, I still have Richard.
I wish I could speak to all the birth mothers out there, who continue to carry the shame and guilt that society placed on us. For those who refuse to allow their relinquished child back into their lives. I want to say I know your fear. I know your uncertainty. I lived it and still live it. It is deep-seated in us, regardless of the circumstances that resulted in us leaving our children. Please know if you are brave enough to welcome that lost child into your life again, you may create a peace and a bond worth all the fear and guilt. There is nothing quite like reuniting a mother and her child, and you may be giving a gift of connection to that child and yourself, as it should have been all along.
One thing I know for sure—the memories of those short years with Richard will uplift me the rest of my life.
Laura L. Engel, author of You’ll Forget This Ever Happened: Secrets, Shame, and Adoption in the 1960s, was born and raised on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and was transplanted to San Diego more than 50 years ago. Retired from a corporate career, she’s married to the love of her life, Gene, and is the mother of five beloved grown children and an adored Golden Retriever, Layla Louise. She’s the president of San Diego Memoir Writers Association and an active member of the International Women Writers Guild. Find her on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
