![]() by Beth Steury In less than thirty minutes, our plane will touch down in Hawaii. Not only have my husband and I never experienced the vacation-paradise beauty of the Hawaiian Islands, we’ve also never met the man who’s picking us up at the airport. “Are you nervous?” inquires my ever-supportive husband. I am, but I’m not. I’m mostly numb. Kind of going through the motions. Last night was short, and today has been long. I think fatigue is contributing to my lack of emotion, and I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. There’s no playbook for this kind of thing. Meeting the man who both you and he discovered just seven months ago is your biological father.
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![]() by Kimberly A. Behan Like a tornado, I swept back into my birth family's life. It was only after the dust settled again, that I wondered if this was the right decision. I thought I was a different person but my feelings of "where do they fit in in my life?" still resided in my heart. The language barrier was an obstacle. I do wonder if we didn't have that barrier to fight through would we be closer? Would we talk more often? Would I not feel dread when I see I have a message from them? I have visited my Colombian family a total of about five times since we reunited. We got more comfortable with each other, so I wound up staying with them in their small apartment. I got a glimpse of what my life might have been. ![]() by Hannah Andrews The song played like a sad trombone in my brain. I sat, nibbling sushi, drinking a giant Diet Coke, and flipping through photographs in a mother-son memory book with my newly found fully grown 32-year-old baby brother. It was January 2020, and I was having a reunion with someone I’d never even known existed. Is that a thing? It is in my world. ![]() By Hannah Andrews I have two fathers. I also have zero fathers. I’ve only known one of my fathers, at least, consciously. Maybe some cute guitar-playing dude sang songs to me while I bounced about inside my natural mother’s belly bump, but if so, I cannot access that memory. So, let’s start this story with the father who was chronologically, technically Father#2, the first one I consciously knew. The one I once (or maybe several times) gave a #1 Dad coffee mug to. ![]() By Rebecca Cohen Three years ago, I declared myself my own mother. Nobody else had mothered me and it didn’t look like anybody was going to. The horde of clamoring children inside me needed somebody. I was the mother of last resort. How did I get into this pickle? Let’s start by saying it wasn’t my idea. |
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July 2024
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