The Questions I Can Never Ask
I recently found a photo of my bio grandmother’s sister, Sadie, on Ancestry. I’d never seen her face before. As I looked at it, I realized some doors will always be closed in this *NPE journey. There are questions I can never ask, stories I will never know, and faces of family I’ll never see. That’s probably been my hardest hurdle to overcome.
My birthday is in a few weeks. All this NPE stuff always gets stirred up for me around this time of year. Growing up, I had the impression that my conception and birth were joyous little surprises after a six-year gap between my brother and me. So, it’s hard not to study the day I was born, and how I came to be, through the lens of what I know now. I don’t feel it was a joyous time for my mother whatsoever. Or **Joe. Or possibly my Dad – if he had any suspicions. I feel there were various levels of anxiety, stress, and, unfortunately, shame amongst them all.
What was my mother thinking during her pregnancy and on the day I was born? Did she wonder if I would look just like Joe, forcing her to explain it away? Did she grasp the burden of carrying this secret for decades? Had my dad figured it out, and did he question if he could love me as his own? Was Joe in denial, disassociating from being my father?
This isn’t to say my mother wasn’t happy I was born. Even when she felt conflicted, I knew she was glad I was here. She loved me very much. I have never doubted that.
I have questions that will never be answered, and, most of the time, I’ve come to terms with that because I really have no choice. But as my birthday approaches in February, I can’t help drifting from acceptance to feeling a twinge of unfairness, and frankly sadness, of never knowing the family stories most people grow up with. I never had the luxury of knowing Joe as an adult and finding out the truth. Having my own children, especially, the questions I wished I could ask him felt even more urgent. Maybe hearing his answers would somehow assure me that he didn’t regret that I was born.
“How did Mom tell you she was pregnant with me? What was your reaction?”
“Did you decide together that Mom would raise me as Dad’s daughter? Or did one of you want it that way more than the other?”
“When was the first time you saw me? What were you feeling when you saw me? Did you think I looked like you? Or your mother? Or your sisters?”
“Did you ever want me to know you were my biological father?
“Did you love my mother?”
Being an NPE means learning to live with the silence of questions that will never be answered. Most days, I’m at peace with it. But celebrating the day I was born brings up feelings that are hard to explain.
I wouldn’t trade my life for anything, yet it’s strange to be grateful for an affair. Grateful for something complicated and imperfect that brought me here.
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.
So many conflicting feelings and yet there was clearly some connection between your mother and Joe because she brought you to see him at his shop on many occasions. If only you could have an adult conversation with Joe to ask your questions. Sigh. Sending you a birthday hug!