Page 95 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

Was I an unwanted child? An illegitimate one? Was that why my birth mother had given me up? Had I caused her grief? Was I a source of shame for her?

The letter answered none of these questions. It only said my mother loved me and that she trusted my parents to give me a good home. Had my parents concealed this secret because they were ashamed of who I was? How could I trust them again? How could I trust myself?

My head and heart were brimming quickly with self-deprecating, negative thoughts. Was I worthy of anyone in my life?

My birth mother had abandoned me. I didn’t know who my father was. The parents who had raised me had woven intricate webs of secrecy around my true identity. Whenever anyone commented on how I looked like Mom or that I had Dad’s smile, they gushed and nodded in agreement.

I needed answers, but my tears were relentless. I was incoherent, physically and mentally. I didn’t know the right questions to ask my parents. My parents! The phrase caught in my heart and crushed my breath. I had thought nothing could make me love them less, and yet, here I was, driving away from them, leaving them in tears, alone to deal with their pain. What kind of son does that? The not-son son.

I flew along the freeway back to my home, mired in hopelessness. I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed a bottle of scotch and stayed up through the night, reading and re-reading the letter and my translation until the liquor managed to incapacitate me.

My Son,

I am not sure when you will read this letter. The moment I realized I was pregnant, I knew I had to find you a good home, because I cannot care for you properly. Through the kind man who will deliver this letter, I found your parents. He assures me they are good people, and I trust him. Even though I have not met them, I know they are kind, because they agreed to accept you in spite of everything they know about me and the circumstances of your birth. They sent me gifts and clothes, money to buy food. I have given them the right to name you. I hope they give you a nice name. I know they will love you like I love you. It is out of love that I am tearing myself away from you, but you will always be my child. I will always send you love and blessings, wherever you are.

Your mother.

A persistent buzz from my cell phone woke me around noon. It was a call from Sameer, but I sent it to voicemail. The two pages lay crumpled on the bed beside a castaway glass and an empty bottle. Gathering the letter, I went to the study and used a laminating sheet to seal it.

I checked my phone—a call from Sona while I was asleep, a text from her asking me to call her back. Two calls from Dad, or the man I called Dad. No voicemail. No voicemail from Sameer either.

The coffee machine had dispensed a dark brew at its regular time. I poured it down the drain and programmed it again. Then, changing my mind, I picked up another bottle. I wanted to talk to my parents, but what would I learn about myself? What if I didn’t like what I learned? Like a moron, I drowned myself in alcohol until I passed out again. When I woke up in the middle of the night, a light headache whispered around my temples. Sona had called again. I was tempted to call her and cry my eyes out, but I didn’t.

Instead, I wandered online in search of stories of people who learned as adults that they had been adopted. Anecdotes and case-studies were rampant with the same sentiments I felt. A crisis of identity, feelings of shame and abandonment, loss and grief, and a certain distrust towards adoptive parents. Some LDAs—late discovery adoptees, that’s who we were—said they felt like they had never fit in with their families. They had known something was off.

I never had. I had never felt out of place. I had drawn my existence from my parents, who weren’t my parents at all. The only thing amiss was that neither had any musical abilities, but the discrepancy hadn’t been strong enough to raise an alarm for me. Why would it? I had no reason to suspect anything about them. Now they had betrayed me and my trust.

Studies said that adoptive parents also feared a loss. Loss of the child’s love, a loss of familial unity and loyalty, and potential emotional distance from their adopted children if they learned the truth. Sitting in my study at 3 a.m., I wondered what had motivated my parents to hide the truth from me. The deeper I dug into the subject, the more confused and conflicted I felt.

Against the waning shadows of dawn peering through my window, I made a list of questions I needed answers to. My brain worked best when I was logical and organized. Like my parents.

A hysterical laugh boomed through the quiet house at the thought. Every single thing in my life, I’d attributed to them. I had Dad’s smile, Mom’s sense of humor, Dad’s analytical brain, Mom’s dry wit. I thought I’d inherited Mom’s cooking genes.

Now, I knew that every single thing about me was a lie.

MIHIR

Sunday morning, I sat at the kitchen table in my parents’ home, staring into my mother’s crestfallen face. She seemed to have aged a decade in two days. She offered me coffee, but I refused. Dad had positioned himself beside her, his staunch figure set up to protect her from me, as if I intended harm.

“I need answers,” I said, staring intrepidly into their old eyes.

“Ask,” Dad said and crossed his arms. He appeared taller, powerful, more determined, unlike his usual gentle self.

“Who am I?”

“You are our son.”

Wow! He wasn’t going to relinquish that line anytime soon. I needed more tact. “Tell me about my birth mother.”

“She was a seventeen-year-old girl when she had you.”

“In Mumbai?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know her?”

“I met her through a friend. Your mother never did.”

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