“So, you’re adopted,” were the first words my future wife Jennifer said to me after she met my parents.
“No, I’m not adopted.” I said, “Why would you say that?”
“Did you skip biology class in high school?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, “I earned straight As in science and math in high school, thank you very much.”
Jennifer continued, “Well, don’t you remember? If both parents have fair eyes, then their child has fair eyes. Your parents both have fair eyes.”
My dark brown eyes blinked back at Jennifer’s bright blue eyes in wonder, but not surprise. I had questioned for years whether I was adopted. My mom, Sheila DeLaney, enjoys FBI status—Full Blooded Irish-American. My dad, Bob Kaczor, looks like a mix of his Polish-American father George and Swedish-American mother Delores. I did not look a bit like either my mom or my dad. For reasons like these, I had asked my parents more than once if I was adopted. But my mom simply said, “You are my son.”
After Jennifer pointed out the basics of biology, I wondered whether I should try to find my birth parents. I did not feel a loss or a void where my biological parents should be. I really had no great desire to find them. I loved the parents who raised me, and they loved me.
But Jennifer thought I should try to find my birth parents to learn family medical history, which might turn out to be lifesaving.
So, with my mom’s help, I reached out to St. Anne’s Family Services in the Diocese of Spokane, Washington. I had spent my first months after birth at St. Anne’s in an orphanage run by the Sisters of St. Francis.
My mom simply said, “You are my son.”
Maggie, the social worker from St. Anne’s, told me that if I wanted to try to contact my family of origin, I should write a letter to my birth mother and birth father. If Maggie could find either of them, they would be given my letter and then decide whether to write a letter back to me. Then, if my birth parents and I both agreed, we would get each other’s contact information.
I got out pen and paper and in the best handwriting I could muster (still bad), I composed a letter to my birth mother and another letter to my birth father. I wondered if either one could be found. If they could be found, would they want to reply to my letter?
Not long after sending off my letters, I received a letter back from St. Anne’s. I opened the envelope and unfolded the letter. My birth mother wrote that she had placed me in a family via adoption because it was what she thought was best for me. When she got pregnant, she did not know my birth father well enough to commit to marriage. But she wanted me to be raised by a married mom and dad, so she placed me for adoption.
After reading her letter, I wrote back to St. Anne’s to release my contact information to my birth mother.
I got another letter from St. Anne’s. I opened an eight-page letter in tiny, almost inscrutable handwriting from my birth father. He told me that he was devastated when I was adopted. He wanted to get married during the pregnancy, but my birth mom declined his proposal.
After reading his letter, I wrote back to St. Anne’s to release my contact information to him.
A few weeks later, I got a phone call from Maggie. She said, “I’ve got good news for you. Your birth mother agreed to exchange contact information with you.”
“Great!”
“I’ve got more good news for you. Your birth father also agreed to exchange contact information with you.”
“Fantastic!”
But Maggie continued, “Finally, I have a surprise for you.”
Another surprise? The news in a single call that not just one birth parent but both wanted to be in touch was about more than I could believe. What else could there be?
Maggie said, “It turns out that they live at the same address.”
What? I imagined that both birth parents, by a bizarre coincidence, had ended up in different units in the same multistory apartment building.
Maggie continued, “A few years after you were adopted, your birth mother and father got married. They have three other children—two sisters and a brother—who are your full siblings.”
But when my mom who raised me learned that I had discovered the identity of my birth parents, that they had married, and that they had three other children, my full siblings, she felt utterly displaced. In a voice soft with despair, she told me, “Well, now that you have found your real family, your dad and I will just let you go. . . .” Her voice trailed off in defeat.
I heard her soft voice, the voice that taught me the Our Father. I saw her small hands, the hands that once placed me gently in my crib. I looked into her sad grey-blue eyes, the eyes of the first person I loved.
I told her, “Mom, you will always be my mom. And Dad will always be my dad. I love you. Nothing can ever change my love for you. When I asked you if I was adopted, you said to me, you are my son. Now, I say to you, you are my mother.”