 By Sherrill Elizondo I see myself as a young child, as though I'm viewing a scene in a movie about someone else. I walk into our living room and see a woman in a 1950s era full skirt. Hands on hips, my voice childlike and demanding, I ask, "Where's my mother?" She ignores me. I don't know if the woman was a mother or a babysitter. This happened over 70 years ago. The little girl and the woman in my mind's eye are fleeting memories. I've tried to retrieve memories from the ages of 3 to 5, but all I've to go by are photographs and what others have told me. A therapist told me my incomplete memories of early childhood are still held as feelings. I felt there were secrets in my family long before I comprehended what they were. Secrets I kept from my childhood boiled over as a teenager and simmered for years. At the age of 40, I began to learn about a mother who left three children in the care of others and why. I'd never been told of her existence, supposedly for my protection. Often, I’d felt like I was not a part of my family in some way. I never considered the possibility of adoption, though I felt something was being withheld from me. My younger brother and I’d joke, as we reached adulthood, that we must have been found in a basket.  I grew up on the outskirts of a Texas city. Dad owned a business and Mother was the secretary and bookkeeper. I took dance lessons and visited my mother’s family, who lived in the city. She was Jewish. Dad was not. My parents agreed on the importance of an education with a religious background, so my younger brother and I were sent to parochial school.
I don’t know when I realized we had a much older brother, but when I was in the first and second grade, we made road trips to California when his ship came in. He was 16 when I was born and enlisted in the Navy at 18. I never thought about the age difference until I was older. People in my generation seldom questioned their parents. It was at school, however, that a teacher told my mother that if I had my hand raised to ask a question, he had better answer me or I'd still have my hand up by the end of the day. My persistence began early in life, but I always strived to be an obedient daughter, a good student, a respectful and honest person, a good wife, and a good parent. *** I was visiting Mother with my three young children. Dad was deceased. I saw a book I'd never seen before. I thumbed through pages of what was my baby book. I could feel her eyes on me. I found a name under sister. “Who is this, Mother?” “Oh, just someone you used to play with,” she replied. I memorized the name and date and left it at that, end of discussion. I told my younger brother. He searched for years before finding it. Mother had probably hidden it. Before he found the book, another incident occurred. My brother lived next door and often cooked for Mother. I was outside one afternoon when he stormed out of her house. “She’s not our mother!” Tears came to my eyes. I said, “Yes, she is," but a familiar feeling welled up. His statement shattered something inside of me. A long-dormant seed took root. It was like a sentence in a novel written by an invisible hand. "These are the truths you believed before age 40, and these are the truths thereafter." I needed to discover the missing pieces of my puzzle. That day was the beginning of a long search for truth. Though I felt I had many blessings, there was a flip side to positive family experiences that caused years of grief, despair, and feelings of undeserved guilt. Why did I feel truth was being kept from me, or that I felt like I wasn't good enough in the eyes of my parents? Why was I vigilant, a perfectionist, and distrustful? There was much emotional baggage I'd never addressed. *** My search began pre-Internet. I had a book about finding people written by a detective. I checked libraries, made phone calls, wrote letters to institutions and strangers, and inquired about how to determine if someone had an amended birth certificate. After Mother’s death, I petitioned the court and opened all my records in the state. I wanted to find out the good about my biological mother and eventually did. Stories about finding one’s biological beginnings can be misleading. Anyone who undertakes such an endeavor should be prepared psychologically. I located a half sister through a marriage record and made contact. She’s a good person who shared with me what we endured as siblings for a few short years and how and why she kept the secret. My father never wanted my younger brother and me to know about his brief second marriage to our biological mother. No one was ever supposed to tell us. He'd divorced his first wife after a marriage of a few years, which produced one son. Later, he married the woman who gave birth to my brother and me. That marriage lasted four years. The half sister I located was a child by my biological mother’s first marriage. She was five years older and could share details of our lives together. My father gained custody at some point after his divorce from our biological mother, and then remarried his first wife. This mother raised us. She legally adopted us when I was 8. The entire family and neighbors knew the story, but my father had everyone under control, keeping them silent. In my search, I found an intelligent and kind person who was my biological mother’s first cousin, a former nun, counselor, and writer of poetry and essays. She was able to gently guide me through my mother’s early years and what had changed the course of her life. Her father died when she was young, and I learned that, if he had lived, perhaps her life would have taken a different direction. My biological mother ignored my attempts to contact her through Social Security channels. She was angry with her cousin for intervening. She was adamant about not wanting to meet me in person, though we did speak a couple of times by phone. She defended her mother, though I knew from other accounts she'd suffered from her cruelty. My biological mother left home at the age of 15 and had taken up with an older man and had gotten into drugs. She eventually married a man who then left her. She moved and met my father. Though a good man in many ways, he was flawed himself, often drinking to excess. I learned from my half sister, through correspondence, that there were times when we, as children, witnessed domestic violence. This was shocking, as I have no memory of it. The letters my younger brother found, which she wrote to the mother who raised us, were indeed telling about our family situation. She cared in her own way and was very grateful to the woman who took care of us, gave us birthday parties, helped us with our schoolwork, and took me to dance lessons. In a phone conversation, she said she considered the mother who raised us to be a saint. She had always loved the children she had left and had done what she thought was right in letting those who could better care for us do so. Our older sister eventually lived with her grandmother. We lived in the same neighborhood, but I never knew it. My half sister told me about a couple of accidental encounters and being told to stay away from me. It seems no one thought one day I should be told the truth, though I believe my father, shortly before his death, planned to do so. He came to visit when my youngest child was barely a year old, and said that he'd always wanted to talk with me but that I was always busy with my children. I got the same sick feeling and walked out of the room, never knowing what he intended to say. *** My biological mother went on to live another life in another state. I believe she turned her life around just as my father tried to do. In reading her obituary, I was amazed at her accomplishments and hoped she was able to come to terms with her earlier life. A few years ago, I found her obituary online before my Jazzercise class. I’ve been dancing problems and stress away since age 5. That morning, I danced my heart out through bitter tears. I remembered her cousin saying my biological mother could bring much happiness to her home when they were young, always laughing, singing, and dancing! I know she was intelligent and a good writer. It's a sad experience to go online and read the obituary of an unknown biological parent. In my heart, I believe she must have thought of us often through the years. I’ve read that found baby book, the letter she wrote to me after I was born, as well as the letters she wrote to the mother who raised me, countless times. Still, I'll never know what she was thinking on her deathbed or if my hands look like hers as I age. A person’s being is composed of nature as well as nurture. I've benefited from both. I’ve lived with knowledge about her new family for over 30 years now. When we spoke by phone, she was adamant that her two children from her last marriage knew nothing of her life when she was younger. She was concerned they'd find out and begged me not to tell them. For years, I did genealogy research on both sides of my family. Though not raised in the Jewish faith, I was close to my mother’s family and felt a connection and, ultimately, a great loss of this heritage when I discovered my true beginnings. Additionally, I realized that medical information was no longer entirely accurate. Had I not done a search, DNA would have confirmed no Eastern European background. One year, my family gave me a DNA test. My half-brother’s name was listed directly under one son’s name. I knew my half-siblings' names, but was still shocked. I left a private message to him through Ancestry. Eventually, I heard from him. He mentioned he knew very little about his mother’s early years. I left him my phone number. We sent Christmas greetings. He's never called. I've questioned why I made contact. Any discussion about the woman who gave birth to both of us and three other children would not be easy. He may not be ready. I might not be either, even with knowing for so many years. *** I handed over all my years of genealogy work to my eldest son. He’s done extensive work with our Ancestry online family trees. I saw the other day that he included ALL branches of my family, my biological side as well as my adopted Jewish side. This made me exceptionally proud of him. I now have pictures of both of my mothers when they were young. There's no doubt who my biological mother is by looking at the pictures. I had two mothers. Both failed me in some ways. I wish, at the age and knowledge I now have, that I could sit down and speak with both of them. I forgive them both for their imperfections. I learned along the way and more so in the seventh decade of life that the mother I was looking for may have been me all along. I had no choice but to become my own mother. About The Author: Sherrill Elizondo graduated from Southwest Texas State University (now Texas State) with a degree in English and education. She’s a sixth-generation Texan with an interest in genealogy. Sherrill is the proud parent of three sons and has six talented and remarkable grandchildren. She’s been an aspiring writer for more than 40 years. Her stories have been featured in Boomer Magazine, Bullock Texas History Museum, 70 Candles, Grand Magazine, Texas Escapes, and Bridge of the Gods. AKA invites you to hear from members of the extended family of adoption and the surrounding community. While we take great care in curating the content, please know
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