Rebecca looked down at my hand.
I had reached toward her without thinking.
It was the first time since she approached me that I had moved closer instead of farther away.
I didn't know whether she would take my hand.
I had already rejected hers once.
I wouldn't have blamed her for hesitating.
But she reached back.
Her fingers closed gently around mine.
I felt tears rise so quickly that I couldn't stop them.
There was nothing remarkable about the gesture.
Two women holding hands in a church.
It happened at funerals every day.
But I couldn't remember the last time something so small had frightened me so much.
I was holding the hand of a woman who might be my daughter.
And I didn't know what to do next.
Rebecca didn't speak.
Neither did I.
The letter was still in my other hand.
I looked down at it.
I thought about the box her adoptive mother had given her.
I thought about the years Rebecca had spent searching.
And I thought about all the years I had spent believing there was no one left to search for.
I wanted to go backward.
Not to change what Rebecca had told me.
To change what I had done when she first approached.
I wished I had listened without laughing.
I wished I hadn't stepped away.
I wished I had been able to say something kind before asking her to prove who she was.
But there was no changing those first minutes.
I could only be careful with the ones that followed.
“I didn't mean to make you feel unwanted,” I said.
Rebecca shook her head.
“I know.”
“I was frightened.”
“I could see that.”
I looked at her.
“I'm still frightened.”
She nodded.
“So am I.”
That surprised me.
I had been thinking about how difficult this was for me.
I hadn't given enough thought to what it meant for her.
She had walked into a funeral with a truth she believed and hoped I would receive it.
She had no way of knowing whether I would accept her.
Or whether I would ask her to leave.
She had brought the letter anyway.
I squeezed her hand slightly.
“I'm glad you came.”
Rebecca covered her mouth with her free hand.
She looked away.
I gave her time.
I had needed plenty of it myself.
After a moment, she looked back.
“Thank you.”
I nodded.
It wasn't the conversation either of us had expected.
Or perhaps Rebecca had expected it.
I didn't know.
There was so much I didn't know about her.
I didn't know what she liked.
I didn't know what made her happy.
I didn't know what memories she had of the woman who raised her.
I didn't even know how she had felt when she first learned that the story of her birth was not what she believed.
All I knew was that she had come looking for me.
And that she stood there holding my hand as though it mattered.
I looked at her face again.
That little dimple.
I had noticed it almost immediately.
At first, I thought it was a coincidence.
Then I had become afraid of looking at it.
Now I wanted to remember every detail.
The shape of her chin.
The way her mouth moved when she tried not to cry.
The way she lowered her eyes before saying something difficult.
I was looking at a fifty-five-year-old woman.
But part of me was searching for the baby I had lost.
I knew that wasn't fair.
Rebecca wasn't a child I could pick up and hold.
She had lived an entire life.
I couldn't make her younger by wishing it.
I couldn't undo the years.
I couldn't pretend we knew each other because we might share blood.
That would take time.
And even then, I didn't know what kind of relationship we might have.
The thought hurt.
I had imagined that if my daughter had survived, everything would have been different.
Now I was learning that survival didn't erase what had happened.
It only made the missing years real.
I looked toward Mama's casket.
She had been part of my life for as long as I could remember.
I had known her voice.
Her habits.
The way she could make a decision and speak as though there was nothing left to discuss.
I had trusted that certainty when I was young.
Now I wondered whether she had used it to keep me from asking questions.
I didn't know.
I could only remember the night she told me my baby was gone.
I had believed her because I couldn't imagine she would lie about something so terrible.
That belief had lasted fifty-five years.
I looked back at Rebecca.
“Did your mother ever tell you why she kept those papers?”
Rebecca looked at the letter.
“She wanted me to have them.”
I nodded.
It wasn't everything I wanted to know.
But I didn't press her.
I had no reason to think she was withholding anything from me.
She had already told me more than I was prepared to hear.
I thought about the woman who had raised her.
She had given Rebecca the box before she died.
Whatever had happened in 1971, that woman had eventually decided Rebecca should know where she came from.
I couldn't help wondering whether she had understood what the truth might do to both of us.
Whether she had imagined Rebecca finding me.
Whether she had known I believed my child was buried.
Rebecca had said she knew about that.
I looked down at our joined hands.
“Do you know something that troubles me?”
She waited.
“I never even thought to look.”
Rebecca's fingers tightened around mine.
I kept speaking.
“I didn't search for you because I thought there was no one to find.”
“I know.”
“But you searched for me.”
She nodded.
I felt ashamed again.
I knew it wasn't reasonable.
I couldn't have searched for a living daughter when I believed she was dead.
But guilt isn't always reasonable.
Sometimes it comes before you have time to decide whether it belongs to you.
I had spent years grieving a child I thought I would never see.
Now I was afraid that child had spent years wondering why I hadn't come.
I looked at Rebecca.
“Did you think I didn't want you?”
She was quiet.
I regretted asking.
It was too much.
Too personal.
We had barely begun to understand what had happened.
But I needed her to know the difference between what I had believed and what I might have chosen.
“I didn't know you were alive,” I said.
My voice shook.
“If I'd known, I wouldn't have spent all those years believing you were gone.”
Rebecca started crying.
I couldn't tell what she was thinking.
I didn't ask her to explain.
I simply stood there with her.
That was all I could offer.
The church seemed very still.
I knew other people were nearby.
I knew there would be things to do after the funeral.
But I couldn't think about them.
I kept looking at Rebecca.
I had never expected to meet someone who could make me question my whole life just by telling me her name.
And yet the name had become important to me.
Rebecca.
I said it softly.
She looked up.
“Yes?”
I shook my head.
“I just wanted to say it.”
She gave a small, tearful smile.
I hadn't seen her smile before.
Not properly.
It made her face look different.
For a moment, I could imagine that there were ordinary things about her I might someday learn.
The way she smiled when she was comfortable.
The things she liked to talk about.
The memories she wanted to share.
I was frightened by that hope.
But I didn't push it away.
I looked at the letter again.
There were still things I didn't understand.
I didn't know exactly how Rebecca had come to be adopted.
I didn't know what Mama had been told or what she had chosen to tell me.
I didn't know whether every detail Rebecca had received was correct.
And I didn't know how to begin asking those questions without hurting her.
But I knew one thing had changed.
I no longer wanted her to go away.
I looked at her.
“I want to hear everything you're able to tell me.”
Rebecca nodded.
I held her hand a little more firmly.
“For once, I don't want to accept an answer just because somebody says it's true.”
I looked at the old paper.
“I want to understand.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: Standing Beside the Casket of the Woman Who Raised Me, I Finally Faced the Question I Had Avoided All Afternoon
I Was Standing Beside My Mother’s Casket When a Stranger Asked for the Name I Had Used All My Life
Part 7 of 10
