I Keep Visiting the Cafe Where My Bio Mom Works, Though She Still Doesn’t Know I’m Her Son — My Story

At 36, I discovered that I was adopted after finding a letter from my birth mother, so I decided to find her. But when I finally did, something unexpected happened. I had no idea what to do.

I was 36 when my parents died. My dad went first, dying of a heart attack in his sleep. My mother followed two months later as if she couldn’t live without him anymore. That’s kind of beautiful, in a way. A bittersweet way. However, I was their only son, and it was up to me to arrange everything.

I sorted things in their house, starting with important documents and accounts that needed to be settled. My plan was to move there, as their home was now mine, and I could stop wasting money on rent. However, there was one document that I never expected to find. A strange letter addressed to me was inside a box in my parent’s closet, along with some odd documents, and I had never seen these papers in my life.

They were adoption papers. Imagine my shock. I was 36 and had just learned I was adopted by chance. My parents obviously never wanted to tell me, or they would’ve when they were alive. I mean, they didn’t make me feel like anything other than their son, but it would’ve been nice to know.

I could’ve asked them all the questions running through my mind. Alas, I couldn’t, so I had to sift through documents, trying to understand. The adoption happened in San Antonio, Texas, where we used to live.

I was now in Hartford, Connecticut, because my father got a job here many years ago, and I returned here after graduating from NYU. It was a closed adoption; apparently, my parents only ever met my birth mother, who wrote me a letter.

Inside, she explained that she was 18 and had no family, support, or anything else to offer me. Therefore, adoption seemed like the best choice. I could understand that, although I suspected my feelings on the subject would fluctuate with time. I was mostly numb, reading everything and trying to learn more.

Her name was Helena, and she wanted me to know she loved me very much.

“I’m only giving you up because I love you dearly and want you to have the best life possible. I hope this was the right decision. All my love, Mom,” I read the last words of her letter and marveled. I couldn’t believe it and felt a twinge of sadness that my parents didn’t tell me about this.

But what could I do now? I turned the piece of paper around and found her full name and her address in San Antonio. So, I could try to find her if I wanted. However, did I want that? Maybe, not. Would it hurt her to see me? Would I be hurt to see her?