The Acceptance of Not Learning More

I wish I could tell you that now that the ice was broken between Mom and me about who my biological father was, she then shared countless stories about *Joe with me. But she really didn’t.

The simple fact was that Mom was embarrassed, and frankly, she didn’t want to talk about it ever again.

The meaning behind the words of our conversation basically called her out as a cheater and a liar, even though I would have never used those harsh words to her or about her. I feel certain she was ashamed of what I must be thinking of her.

She didn’t outright ask me to not tell my brothers and sisters until after she was gone, but I knew she was worried about that. And she worried about my three daughters knowing. So I decided after that first conversation, that there was no gain in causing her pain by telling them while she was still living. Her time was short and we all knew that.  There was nothing I would gain from it, either. I don’t regret that choice. I had three short conversations with Mom after that day about it, and it was like pulling teeth to get her to participate in the conversations. Sometimes, I got lucky with information I didn’t know before.

In one conversation, I told her my memories of Joe were very few, and if she felt like jotting down anything about him on paper, I would love that. She didn’t react to that at all and pretended not to hear me. So, scratch that ever happening. I knew she would never do it.

Another time, I asked her if she thought I looked like Joe or had any of his characteristics or traits. “No,” she said curtly.

She seemed annoyed that I wouldn’t stop asking her things. But then, later in that same conversation, her expression changed. She knew I needed SOMETHING. Anything.

“When you told me years ago that you had an issue with your thyroid, I thought, ‘Oh boy, here’s my punishment.’ “she said, looking to the heavens. “Joe’s sister had terrible thyroid troubles beginning in her 30s, just like you. That’s where you get it from,” she said.

It was not exactly what I was hoping for as far as deep personal sharing, but it was something. It was practical info to have, at least.

I asked her about my biological paternal grandparents and what she knew about them. She didn’t really know Joe’s mother, but she knew Joe’s father very well because he had still puttered around the store despite having handed it over to Joe to run. She had positive things to say about Joe, Sr., and what a lovely man he was. He was so well respected in town, she said. She recounted a funny story of Joe Jr. having to keep an eye on the pickle jars in the store because, near the end of his life, Joe Sr. would sometimes pop open a jar, take a big sip of pickle juice, screw the lid back on, and put it back on the shelf for sale. He was losing it a bit, according to my mother. He died a week before I was born on February 8, 1965.

Her relationship with Joe was something she would never speak directly about. Understandable, I guess. I would piece together their relationship from my own memories and those of my siblings, and photos I found after she passed away.

It was a back and forth Q & A for the most part:

Me: “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
Mom:  “Oh, it wouldn’t have helped anyone.”

Me: “Did his wife know?”
Mom: “No.”

Me: “Did he ask about me?”
Mom: “No. But I called him to tell him things.”
Me: “What kind of things?”
Mom: “College. When you got married. When you had the girls.”
Me: “Did he like hearing about those things?”
Mom: “Yes.”

There was little else she would share beyond a few things I already knew. I realized I was never going to learn more, and that frustrated me tremendously.

But one day, on my final try, I finally got something from her.

We were sitting casually in her living room chatting. I shared with her that I had memories of going into Joe’s store and shopping with the little child-size metal shopping cart that was always there. (Read more about that in a past post HERE) I reminded her that I loved putting my dolls in there and that she would let me shop by myself for our cat’s food.

“Remember that little cart?” I asked her.
She didn’t miss a beat. “He bought that for you,” she answered.

My mouth dropped open. I was genuinely stunned. What??

“You mean for all the little kids that came in?” I asked.
“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head and looking right at me. “Just for you.”

She went on, “Once you were old enough to push it, he bought it for you to keep at the store when you came in. Oh sure, other kids used it.”

I became emotional hearing this. One of the clear memories I have of interacting with Joe was with that shopping cart. Learning he bought it with me in mind was indescribable. It made me happy and sad at the same time.  I would never really know him, and I would probably never be able to claim him as my father publicly. That was the reality of my paternity. But this small thing meant everything to me. It was the only true link I had between him and me. And it had to be enough.

*psuedonym

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This is my NPE story of discovering in 2015 that my Dad was not my biological Dad. If you’d like to follow along, I encourage you to start at my first post of the series HERE.