By Dawn Packard
Have your clothes already laid out. Get up early before your family does. Make a cup of strong coffee, but you won’t really need it. You may never be more awake.
A little light makeup. No mascara. Some tissues in your pocket against need. Calculate again the time and distance from your hotel to the restaurant. Run a cloth over the boots you’ll walk in. Stand in front of a full-length mirror and know that this is how she will see you.
Discard any notions of eating. Don’t take anything to take the edge off. Fifty-three years is a long time to wait; you won’t want to miss any of it.
Swallow one last slug of the coffee you don’t need. Kiss your sleeping son and close the door softly as you leave. You will not return as the same person.
Walk to the restaurant and breathe deeply of the sharp winter morning air. Firmly tether your mind to your body. Stay present.
As you walk, gather all the selves you’ve ever been who’ve dreamed about this moment. The child who didn’t understand. The teenager lashing out at not-my-mother. The graduate, the bride, the new mom. You’re all going to breakfast together.
Take a moment to compose yourself before you grasp the handle of the door and pull it open. Run a hand through your hair. Arrange your scarf. Do your best to not look nervous.
Scan the dining room and push away tendrils of panic when you don’t see her. Remind yourself that you would’ve never come if she didn’t seem trustworthy. Believe that she’ll be there and try not to sag with relief when you spot her at a corner table. Maintain your composure.
Walk to the table projecting a confidence you do not feel and watch as she unfolds herself from the booth and rises to embrace you. Clench your jaw and swallow as you hug. She will smell warm and nice, like a baby blanket. Breathe her in. Calm your galloping heartbeat and savor this moment. You will never have another like it.
Order more coffee and some food you’ll barely touch. Pick at your toast as you will yourself not to stare at the woman who gave birth to you. Try to adjust to seeing your own eyes looking out at you from someone else’s face. It’s a weird feeling. Remind yourself to breathe.
Know that when you hear her voice, it will hit like an electrical current deep in your gut and at the base of your brain. Collect yourself. Organize your shattered thoughts and ask the questions you most need answers to. Understand that this could be your only chance. Hope that it isn’t.
Allow her to reach for the check. Absorb the feeling that she wants to do something for you. Accept her offer of a ride back to your hotel and try not to cry in her car when she hands you a small gift bag. It will contain three oranges, homemade chocolate chip cookies, and a handkerchief embroidered by your grandmother. Try harder not to cry.
Smile politely and thank her for breakfast as you slide from the smooth leather seats of her car onto the sidewalk in front of your hotel. Watch her drive away and wonder what she is feeling. Take a few minutes for yourself in the lobby before you go back to your suite.
Hug your family. Tell them, it went well, I think as you walk into the bedroom and close the door. Put on your softest t-shirt. Step out onto the balcony, you’ll need the cool air. Peel an orange as you gaze at the snow-covered city. You’ve just met your mother.
Now, you can cry.
Dawn Packard is a 55-year old domestic Baby Scoop Era relinquishee and adoptee living in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She was adopted at two weeks old in a closed adoption.
Author photo by Jackie Flynn Batista.
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Venmo: @Dawn-Packard-1
