I only wish you love, joy, and peace, dear sister, even if we never meet.
By Billie Bakhshi
Dear Donna,
How’s my big sister? I’ve fantasized about asking you this ever since I found out you existed.
I thought I was the oldest of our mother’s children, but then there you were.
I was 24 years old, nursing my second-born on the sofa when our mother suddenly burst out and said, “I’m not going to my grave with this.” She revealed that she’d been 17, unwed, and pregnant in 1967 and had been sent to live at the Booth Maternity Home for Unwed Mothers. The unnamed boyfriend wouldn’t marry her, so her parents made arrangements for her to be squirreled away, protecting the family from shame.
She lived in a dorm. Think “Madeline” — remember, the children’s book? Except all the girls were pregnant and weren’t to talk to each other to preserve their anonymity. When they walked outside — not in two straight lines as in Madeline — they each wore a slim gold wedding band so they could be passed off as respectable, married, mothers to be.
At Catholic Charities, unwed mothers were “prepared” to relinquish their babies. They were told they were saving the baby from the stigma of being a “bastard” and were being given chance at a re-do in life.
She named you Donna, after the song by Ritchie Valens, which she heard playing on the radio when she was there at the home for unwed mothers. You were whisked away after being born. She saw you a year later, at a relinquishment hearing, and she described you as tall and blonde.
I was stunned by my mother’s confession. I wanted to find you. You’d been there all along — the big sister I always wanted. But then our mother shut down and she’s refused to say another word since.
Armed with your birthdate, the name of the hospital, and the adoption agency, I began to investigate. Booth Maternity Center was gone, and St. Joseph’s University had bought the property. Catholic Charities would not release any information. Sealed adoption. They allowed me to write you a letter. If you ever went looking for it, you’d find me. Maybe. Vital Statistics was another dead end. I posted on the International Soundex Reunion Registry and hoped. With each passing year, my hope of finding you has dimmed.
I imagine you’re the lucky one. The wanted one. Your adoptive parents must have really, really wanted you and fallen in love with you at first sight. Mom was beautiful when she was young, and she always had an eye for a gorgeous man. I just know you’re gorgeous, too. How your mom and dad must love you. I know that not all adoption stories are the fairy tales the Hallmark Channel wants us to believe they are, but I hope yours was.
Meanwhile, I was our mother’s second attempt at keeping a man who didn’t want her. You escaped my fate. Maybe my existence was a constant reminder to my mother that she was unwanted. She never loved me. My first memory of her is of her beating me. I learned to keep my distance, to lay low.
She was unpredictable, her mental health an issue since childhood and exacerbated by drug use. Joan Crawford had nothing on her, and I became the codependent caregiver.
At 17, I was so starved for love that I found myself in the very same circumstances that our mother had been in all of those years earlier — unmarried and pregnant. And she tried to inflict the same heartbreak on me, making calls to maternity homes and adoption agencies to make arrangements for me.
I didn’t know our mother’s history at that point, Donna. I only knew that I could not live without my baby. But when I learned about you, when I fully realized the depth of our mother’s cruelty — being so willing to inflict on me the same heartbreak, completely unnecessarily in the 1990s — it was more than I could bear. I distanced myself for many years.
She never saw my daughter, except in pictures, until Serena was 4. She completely missed the first milestones. I couldn’t bring my daughter near her. What if she gave Serena away when my back was turned?
Cody was the first newborn our mother saw me interact with. I think seeing me, blissfully breastfeeding, triggered her. I was happy. She was not. Her response — her resentment and anger that I had a baby and a husband while she had neither — was, “You have a sister. No, I won’t tell you anything about her. Now stew.”
Our mother is no longer a part of my life. I am finally healing. That said, what do I bring to the table?
- A completely unhappy family history of intergenerational trauma, abuse, and mental illness.
- An obsession with breaking the curse of said intergenerational trauma, a happy marriage, and four great kids who would adore having an Auntie Mame. (I warned you that I fantasize.)
Confession: I’m so afraid of what I might find in you. Are you plagued with the same mental health problems and addictions as our mother? Will this information disrupt your life or hurt you? Because I don’t want that. No, I can’t help you bridge a relationship with her. Please don’t ask. I burned that bridge permanently.
I only wish you love, joy, and peace, dear sister, even if we never meet.
I’m on 23&Me and hitting Ancestry next.
Love,
Billie
Billie Bakhshi lives with her husband and children in Las Vegas, Nevada. You can read more of her musings at her blog, The Family Caretaker.
