Page 32 of The Arrogant's Redemption

“My mom put me up for adoption as soon as I was born.”

“What?”

“My parents had been together since they were kids. They’d known each other their whole lives and always knew they were meant to be together.”

“What happened?”

“Are you really interested in knowing?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t.”

“They were in an accident. My mom was pregnant, and it’s a miracle I survived. But everyone else died.”

“Everyone?”

“My whole family was in the car. My dad died on the spot,” she says, her voice faltering.

If I were a better man, I’d tell her she doesn’t have to keep going, that it’s obvious she’s in pain. But empathy is a feeling I don’t know, so I go on. “So why did she give you up for adoption?”

“Because the pain of losing them was so overwhelming that she couldn’t even take care of herself, let alone a baby. She had postpartum depression, and at the time, she was afraid she might hurt me. Not on purpose, of course, but without realizing it.”

“So she decided to place you in an orphanage. That was a courageous decision.”

She was looking straight ahead, focused on the sidewalk, but after what I said, she stops and turns to me.

“What?” I ask.

“I think you’re the only person who’s ever said that to me.”

“It’s the logical conclusion.”

“No, it’s not. Most people would judge her for not being strong enough.”

“I’m not most people. I’m a pragmatic man. I believe your mother did what she thought was best for your wellbeing.”

She starts walking again in silence. Eventually, she says, “So that’s what tonight’s celebration is about.”

“She regretted it and came back for you?”

“Yes, but first she stayed at a mental health clinic for almost a year. Only when she was sure she could start putting her heart back together did she come for me.”

“I didn’t understand the rescue part. I don’t know much about trauma, but if you were around one year old, it doesn’t seem like long enough to notice you’d been given up for adoption.”

“She didn’t get me back until eight years later.”

“What?”

“The orphanage where she left me caught fire. I was transferred to another one, near the Canadian border in New York, but in the process, my documents got lost. It took her years to finally get me back.”

It takes me a few seconds to process the information, and—rare for me—I find myself imagining what it must feel like to be left behind. I completely understand her mother’s decision not to keep the baby close until it was safe, but I can’t help but wonder if Alexis felt rejected.

“Weren’t you adopted by another family during that time?”

“Many times. But nothing permanent. I’m not exactly the kind of child people want.”

“Actually, you fit the profile most American families look for—blonde, blue-eyed, placed for adoption as a baby.”

“Yeah, I know that. I’ve done my research. What I meant is, I was always weird.”

---