We left early the next morning.
Grant drove again.
The address Elizabeth had given us was written on a small piece of paper.
I had checked it several times before we left.
It was a modest house on a quiet street.
Nothing about the address suggested that it held an answer to twenty years of questions.
Still, I couldn't stop thinking about it.
I kept the photograph of Sarah in my jacket pocket.
I wanted to have something to look at if the conversation became difficult.
Grant didn't say much.
He seemed focused on the road.
Every few minutes, he checked the address.
Eventually, we reached the neighborhood.
The houses were close together.
Some had small gardens.
Others had old fences and narrow front steps.
Grant slowed down.
"That should be it."
I looked at the number.
It matched.
He parked across the street.
For several seconds, we stayed inside the car.
The house had a small front garden.
There were flowers near the entrance.
A pair of shoes sat beside the door.
It looked like an ordinary home.
I wondered how many ordinary mornings Sarah had spent there.
I wondered whether she had ever looked at the road and hoped two grown men might appear.
Grant turned toward me.
"Do you want me to go first?"
I shook my head.
"No. We'll go together."
We crossed the street.
My legs felt unusually heavy.
I reached the front steps.
There was a small bell beside the door.
I pressed it.
Nothing happened.
I waited.
Then I pressed it again.
We heard movement inside.
A moment later, someone approached.
The door opened slightly.
A woman stood behind it.
She looked older than the woman in the photograph.
Her hair was darker in places and gray in others.
There were lines around her eyes.
But I recognized something immediately.
The eyes.
The same eyes from the photograph.
She looked at me.
Then at Grant.
Her hand moved toward the doorframe.
For a moment, she didn't speak.
I could hear my own breathing.
"Can I help you?"
Her voice was quiet.
I swallowed.
"My name is Wesley."
She stared at me.
Grant stepped closer.
"I'm Grant."
The woman's face changed.
She looked from one of us to the other.
Then she whispered:
"My boys?"
I couldn't answer.
She opened the door wider.
Her eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, my goodness."
Grant looked down.
I felt my throat tighten.
She reached toward us but stopped before touching either of us.
"I thought I'd never see you again."
Those words were enough to break something inside me.
I took the photograph from my pocket.
It was the picture of her holding us as babies.
I held it out.
"Is this you?"
She looked at the photograph.
Her lips trembled.
"Yes."
She touched the edge with one finger.
"I remember that day."
I wanted to ask a hundred questions.
Instead, I asked the one that had been sitting inside me since childhood.
"Did you leave us?"
She closed her eyes.
Then she shook her head.
"No, sweetheart."
I looked at Grant.
He was staring at her.
Sarah stepped aside.
"Please come inside."
We entered.
The living room was simple.
There were photographs on a shelf.
A small vase stood beside a lamp.
A knitted blanket was folded over the sofa.
Sarah asked us to sit.
She went to the kitchen and returned with three glasses of water.
Her hands were shaking.
She placed the glasses on the table.
Then she sat opposite us.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
I noticed a photograph on the shelf.
It showed a young woman standing beside a man.
I recognized the man.
Raymond.
Sarah followed my eyes.
"Your father came to see me sometimes."
I turned toward her.
"Raymond?"
She nodded.
"He loved you both very much."
Grant leaned forward.
"Then why didn't he bring us here?"
Sarah looked down.
"Because things became complicated."
I felt frustration rising again.
"Everyone keeps saying that."
She looked at me.
"I know."
I placed Raymond's letter on the table.
"Did you know he wrote this?"
Sarah picked it up.
When she saw the handwriting, her eyes filled again.
"Yes."
She held the paper carefully.
"He wanted you to know the truth."
"Why didn't he tell us?"
Sarah took a long breath.
"Because he believed he could fix everything first."
I looked at her.
"What did he need to fix?"
She stared at the letter.
Then she told us that the adoption had not begun with the intention of erasing her.
She had agreed because she wanted us to have a stable home.
Raymond and Gwendolyn had promised that we would be cared for.
She had believed that she could remain connected to us.
But after the adoption, Gwendolyn began insisting that Sarah stay away.
At first, Sarah thought it was temporary.
Then the visits stopped.
The messages stopped being answered.
The letters came back.
And eventually, she was told that we were too young to remember her and that contact would only confuse us.
I stared at her.
"Did you believe that?"
"No."
Her answer came quickly.
"Never."
Grant looked at the photograph.
"Did you try to fight for us?"
Sarah's eyes filled.
"I tried in the ways I knew how."
I waited.
She continued.
"I wrote. I called. I asked people to help me. But every time I got close, someone told me it was better to leave things alone."
"Who?"
Sarah looked at us.
"Gwendolyn."
I felt my hands tighten.
"Why would she do that?"
Sarah shook her head.
"I don't know everything that happened between her and Raymond. I only know that she wanted to become the only mother you remembered."
The room became silent.
I looked at Grant.
He had his head lowered.
Sarah reached toward him.
"I'm sorry."
He didn't move.
She turned toward me.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me."
I looked at the woman across from us.
I had imagined meeting my biological mother many times after hearing Elizabeth's account.
I had imagined anger.
Questions.
Maybe even accusations.
But I hadn't imagined how difficult it would be to hear her apologize for years she had never wanted to lose.
I took a breath.
"Did you ever stop loving us?"
Sarah began crying.
"No."
She reached for the photograph again.
"Not for one day."
I looked at the picture.
Then I looked at her.
I didn't know whether I was ready to call her my mother.
I didn't know how to fit her into a life that had been built around a different story.
But I knew one thing.
She hadn't forgotten us.
And she hadn't wanted to.
We stayed for several hours.
Sarah showed us more photographs.
Some were from before our adoption.
Others were taken around the time we were toddlers.
She had kept a small collection in a drawer.
There were birthday cards she had written but never sent.
One was addressed to Grant.
Another had my name.
I held mine for a long time.
The paper had become yellow.
The writing was careful.
I couldn't bring myself to open it immediately.
Sarah noticed.
"You don't have to read it now."
I nodded.
Grant looked at the cards.
"Did Raymond know you kept these?"
"Yes."
"Did he ever tell you what happened to the originals?"
Sarah shook her head.
"No."
I looked at her.
"Do you know why Gwendolyn hated you?"
Sarah became quiet.
Then she said:
"I think she was afraid that if you knew me, you would ask questions about why she needed to keep you from me."
That answer stayed with me.
Before we left, Sarah asked whether we would come back.
I looked at Grant.
He nodded.
"Yes," I said.
Sarah smiled through her tears.
"Then I'll make sure there's enough coffee next time."
It was such an ordinary thing to say.
For some reason, it made the whole meeting feel real.
We walked back to the car.
Grant opened the driver's door.
I stood beside him, looking at the house.
The woman inside had been part of our lives before we could remember.
And now, after all those years, we had finally heard her voice.
I took the photograph from my pocket and looked at it one more time.
This time, I didn't see a stranger holding two children.
I saw our mother.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: The Birthday Cards Our Mother Had Kept for Years Contained More Truth Than Anything Gwendolyn Had Ever Told Us
I Thought Bringing Her Birthday Flowers Might Finally Make Her See Me as Her Son
Part 8 of 20
